Meg of the Heather, by Evelyn R. Garratt

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.

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.

"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."

"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."

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.

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

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

"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—

"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."

"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."

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

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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.

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.

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.

"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."

"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."

"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.

"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?"

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—

"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.

"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."

"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.

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."

"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.

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.

"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."

"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?"

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."

"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.

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—

"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.

"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."

"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."

"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."

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

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.

"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."

"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."

"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.

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.

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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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.

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?"

"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!"

"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."

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.

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.

"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.

"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.

"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."

"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.

"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."

"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.

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.

"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."

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."

"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."

"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."

"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.'

"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.

"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?"

"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.

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.

"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."

"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."

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

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.

"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?"

"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

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.

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 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."

"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."

"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."

"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.

"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?"

"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."

"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 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.

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

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.

"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.

"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."

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.

"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.

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.

"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.

"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 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?"

"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."

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

"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.

"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."

"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."

"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.

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

"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."

"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."

"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.

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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 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 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."

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."

"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.

"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."

"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.

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

"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."

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."

"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."

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

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.

"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.

"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.

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.

"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.

"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."

"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."

"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.

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.

"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."

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.

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."

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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."

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

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."

"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.

"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 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

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.

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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 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.

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.

"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.

"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."

"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."

"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."

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.

"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

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.

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 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."

"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."

"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.

"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."

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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—

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?

"Yes, this morning before breakfast. Walter found the side door unlocked. She must have gone very early."

"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."

"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."

"Yes it was. You see I was very cross with her. I felt her conduct was disgraceful and I told her so."

"Yes I do," she said. "You must confess that Meg was very extraordinary at the concert. I was really obliged to speak to 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."

"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."

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

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."

"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."

"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.

"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."

"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."

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.

"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?"

"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."

"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.

"It's my head," groaned Meg. "It's so terrible hot. Can you give me a drink of water?"

"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."

"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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"I've two secrets to tell you," he said in a loud whisper. "Would you like to hear them?"

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."

"It's to-morrow that ever is, and I've got another just lovely secret for you. You like my secrets don't you?"

"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?"

"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?"

"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.

"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.

"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."

"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."

"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.

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.

"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."

"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.

"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.

CHAPTER XXII

REMORSE

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.

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:

"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.

"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."

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'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.

"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."

"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.

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.

"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."

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.

"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.

"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."

"How could I?" said Meg quietly. There was a tone in her voice which Mr. Wentworth noticed and interpreted.

"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.

"'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."

"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.

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.

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."

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."

"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."

"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.

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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Meg of the heather

"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