Little Sunbeam, by Eleanora H. Stooke—A Project Gutenberg eBook

BROAD SANCTUARY, WESTMINSTER
NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 & 3 BIBLE HOUSE

[All rights reserved]

"COME along, Billy. Mother said we were not to be long; and I'm sure we've been more than half an hour."

The speaker—a little girl of about nine years old, clad in a somewhat shabby blue serge coat and skirt, with a Tam o' Shanter cap on her golden curls—tried to pull her brother away from the toy shop window into which he was gazing longingly; but he resisted, and still lingered.

"There's plenty of time, Peggy," he assured her. "You know we never have tea till five o'clock, and you can't imagine what a heap of jolly things there are in this window. I wish you could see them."

"I wish I could," she answered. "Never mind, you can tell me all about them by-and-by."

It was a cold, dull, February day; but it did not rain, and the street was thronged with vehicles, whilst the pedestrians—mostly of the lower classes, for the district was a poor one—hustled against each other on the pavements. No one took any notice of the two children who had been standing before a toy shop window for the last ten minutes. And, indeed, there was nothing about them to attract the observation of a casual observer, although the countenance of the little girl, with its finely-cut features and sweet expression, possessed a delicate beauty which was certainly out of the common. No one looking at Peggy Pringle would have guessed that she was blind, for her eyes, in colour the darkest blue, were as clear as crystal; but the sad fact was that the blessing of sight was denied to her.

It had been a terrible trouble to the child's parents when, some months after her birth, they had learnt the truth, that the happy baby, whose rosebud lips seemed formed only for smiles, and whose eyes were "bits of Heaven's blue" as her young mother had used to declare, would never see the light of day, and they had grieved deeply. But Peggy had never appeared to realise how great was her affliction, and at the present time it would have been difficult, if not impossible, to find a more contented little girl. "Little Sunbeam" her father had nicknamed her years before, and a veritable sunbeam in the household she continued to be.

Peggy and her brother, who was only thirteen months her junior, had been sent to buy buns for tea, and she was holding the bag which contained them with one hand, whilst with the other she kept a firm grip of Billy's coat. She was not exactly nervous in a crowd, for she had been accustomed to London all her life, and her home was in a thickly populated district. But she experienced a sense of bewilderment as she listened to the hurrying footsteps on the pavement and the continual roll of carriage wheels, and she wished Billy would tire of looking into shop windows and return home.

"Come, Billy," she urged again, "mother will wonder what is keeping us. Do come."

Accordingly, Billy took his sister by the hand with an air of protection, and they walked on. At the corner of the street, they stood waiting for a favourable opportunity to cross.

"There's one on the other side of the road," replied Billy, "but we don't want him. I can manage all right. When I say 'Now,' mind you come right on."

So, hand in hand, the children went fearlessly forward. And they would have effected the crossing in safety had not a private carriage, drawn by a pair of spirited horses, turned the corner from a side street. Billy hurried his sister on; but the road was slippery, and, in her haste, the little girl stumbled and let go her brother's hand. Some one flung Billy on one side, whilst the coachman driving the pair of horses pulled them back on their haunches in time to prevent a serious accident, but not before one of the animals had struck poor Peggy on the shoulder with its hoof. She was borne to the pavement in the arms of the policeman whose help Billy had disdained, and in a few minutes a small crowd had congregated.

"What has happened?" inquired an imperious voice from the interior of the carriage. "Is any one injured?"

"A little girl," answered the policeman. "I think she's more frightened than hurt, though," he added, as he set Peggy on the ground, and Billy, pale and frightened, rushed to her side.

"No, ma'am. He was driving carefully, and had the horses under proper control; but—"

A head was thrust out of the carriage window, and the crowd saw the face—a haughty, handsome face it was—of a white-haired old lady, who beckoned to the policeman to approach, which he did.

"You had better take the little girl to a hospital, if she is hurt," the old lady said, in a tone which expressed neither interest nor sympathy. "I suppose that would be your duty? Well, you know your business; it is none of mine, as my servant, you assure me, is blameless. However, here is my card should you require to communicate with me."

The handsome old face drew back from the window, and the carriage was driven away, whilst the crowd dispersed, leaving only the policeman and one other—an elderly clergyman, who had come upon the scene after the accident—with the frightened children.

Peggy's shocked face brightened at the sound of the kindly voice, which she recognised immediately as belonging to Mr. Maloney, the Vicar of St. John's Church, where her father was the organist.

"Of course I will, my dear," he responded promptly, with a reassuring nod and smile at Billy. "What happened?" he inquired of the policeman, who briefly explained, adding that no one had been in fault.

"Billy couldn't have helped it," Peggy said hastily, fearful lest blame should be attached to her brother.

"No, the little boy was not to blame," agreed the policeman. "Are you going to take charge of the children, sir?" he asked of the clergyman.

"Yes. I know them well; their father is Mr. Pringle, the organist of St. John's Church. What is this?" Mr. Maloney questioned as he took the card the policeman presented to him.

"The lady in the carriage gave it to me, sir. I have made a note of the name and the address. Maybe the little girl's father will make some claim—"

"I imagine not," interposed the clergyman quickly; "but I will take the card and give it to Mr. Pringle. Thank you,"—and he slipped the bit of pasteboard into his vest pocket.

"Oh, Billy, I dropped the buns!" exclaimed Peggy regretfully. They had no money to buy more, and the buns had been purchased for a treat.

"The horses trod on them," Billy replied; "but, never mind, mother won't think anything about them when she knows what's happened. I'm afraid she'll never trust you out alone with me any more."

The little girl made no response. The pain in her shoulder was making her feel sick and faint, and her legs trembled as she walked along by Mr. Maloney's side, her hand in his. He saw she was suffering, and regarded her with compassionate eyes, whilst he exchanged remarks with Billy. Soon she began to lose the drift of her companions' conversation, and when at length, home—a small house, one of a terrace—was reached, the shock she had received proved too much for her, and she fell insensible into her mother's arms.

When Peggy regained consciousness, she found herself undressed and in bed. Everything was very quiet, but she was aware of some one's presence, and it was no surprise when soft lips met hers in a loving kiss, and her mother's voice said, "You are better, Peggy dear."

Then she was gently raised in bed, and, to her astonishment, she found her shoulder was bandaged; but she was not in much pain now, so she took the bread and milk offered to her, and lay down again, feeling strangely weak and tired, and disinclined to talk.

"Sleep if you can, darling," her mother said tenderly. "You will be much stronger to-morrow. The doctor has attended to your poor shoulder. Thank God you are not more seriously hurt!"

"What is the time mother?" Peggy asked. "Have you had tea? I was so sorry about the buns. I dropped them, you know."

"Did you? As if that mattered! No, we have not had tea. We have been too anxious about you to think of it. Now we shall have tea and supper together. It is nearly seven o'clock—not quite your usual bedtime, but never mind that to-night. Rest will do you good. I want you to sleep."

"I am very tired," Peggy murmured, "but I haven't said my prayers, and my head feels so funny that I can't think. I will say my 'little prayer' to-night.' Then she repeated very slowly and softly:

"Holy Father, cheer our way
With Thy love's perpetual ray:
Grant us every closing day
Light at evening time."

It was a pathetic prayer, coming as it did from the lips of one who lived in permanent darkness. But it had been one of the first Peggy had learnt and she had always been very fond of it, calling it her "little prayer." To-night her eyelids closed as she repeated the last line, and a few minutes later she had fallen asleep.

Mrs. Pringle remained by the bedside some while longer, tears, which she had repressed till now, running down her cheeks, though her heart was full of gratitude to Him Who had spared her child's life. She was a most affectionate mother, devoted to both her children; but her little daughter, doubtless by reason of her affliction, was always her first care. She shuddered as she thought what might have been the result of the accident that afternoon, and pictured her darling trampled beneath the horses' hoofs.

"God gave His angels charge over her," she murmured, as she bent her head once more, and kissed the little sleeper. Then she stole softly away, and went downstairs to the sitting-room where Billy his father were keeping each other company, both heavy-hearted, though the doctor had assured them there was no cause for alarm.

"Sleeping peacefully," she told them, a smile lighting up her pale, tearful countenance. "You may go and look at her; but please be very careful not to disturb her. I have every hope that she will be better after a good rest. We have much to thank God for this night!"

CHAPTER II

WHEN Mr. Pringle and Billy returned to the sitting-room after having been upstairs to look at Peggy asleep so comfortably, they found that Mrs. Pringle, with the assistance of Sarah, the maid-of-all-work of the establishment, had prepared the long-delayed tea. Whilst the family sat down to the meal, Sarah, at her own suggestion, went to keep watch by the little sleeper; and a few minutes later there was a knock at the front door.

"Go and see who's there, Billy," said Mr. Pringle. "I should not be surprised if it is Mr. Maloney," he proceeded, turning to his wife, "for he was very concerned about Peggy and said he hoped to look in by-and-by to hear the doctor's report."

And Mr. Maloney the visitor proved to be. He accepted Mrs. Pringle's offer of a cup of tea, and took the chair Billy placed for him at the table.

"I am glad to know the doctor thinks your little girl is not much hurt," he said in his pleasant voice. "Billy greeted me with the good news the moment he opened the door."

"The only injury she has sustained is to her shoulder," replied Mr. Pringle, "but of course she has experienced a great shock. Her escape from a frightful death was quite providential," he added with a slight break in his voice.

"Quite," Mr. Maloney agreed. "It was too bad of the owner of the carriage to drive on, as she did, without ascertaining the extent of the poor child's injuries," he continued warmly. "The least she could have done, under the circumstances, one would have thought, would have been to have driven her home."

"She was a nasty old woman, I'm sure she was," declared Billy with flushing cheeks and sparkling eyes. "She told the policeman, he had better take Peggy to a hospital if she was hurt, and she said it was his business, not hers. She spoke in such a proud way—as though she didn't care for anything or any one."

"Well, Peggy found a friend in need," Mr. Pringle remarked with a grateful glance at Mr. Maloney, who smiled and said he was glad to have been of service.

The Vicar and the organist of St. John's were on terms of friendship, though the former was elderly and the latter not middle-aged. Mr. Maloney had lived most of his life in London. He was a hard worker, and much beloved by all who knew him. But some of his acquaintances declared him lacking in ambition, for on several occasions he had declined preferment, choosing to retain the living of St. John's, which he had held for more than twenty years. He was an unmarried man, and consequently the living, though a poor one, supplied his simple needs.

He was getting an old man now, but the bright, unquenchable light of that enthusiasm which had made him a faithful labourer in Christ's vineyard all his days still shone in his earnest, deep-set eyes, and earnestness was stamped indelibly upon his countenance. And the truth was that his ambition soared far and away beyond the worldly meaning of the term: he was working for the "Well done" of the Master for Whose sake he had elected to live amongst those of little account in this world.

Mr. Pringle had been the organist of St. John's since his marriage ten years previously. He was a tall, fair man with a thoughtful face and clear blue eyes. Peggy much resembled him; whilst Billy took after his mother in appearance, being brown-haired and brown-eyed. The Pringles were a very united family, and theirs was a happy home though it was a rather poor one, and Mr. Pringle was glad to add to his salary by taking music pupils.

"I did not see the owner of the carriage," Mr. Maloney remarked by-and-by, after they had discussed Peggy's accident at some length. "Why, dear me, how stupid of me!" he exclaimed, a sudden recollection crossing his mind. "I have her card in my pocket here! She gave it to the policeman, who, in his turn, gave it to me, thinking that you might be inclined to seek redress from her for poor Peggy's injuries, I believe. Let us see who the unsympathetic old lady is."

He had produced the card by this time, and now handed it to Mrs. Pringle, who glanced at it, uttered a cry of astonishment, and grew very red.

"Yes," she replied in a low tone, "I do. I can understand that she evinced no interest—though she could not have known whose child Peggy was."

A brief silence followed, during which Billy, keenly observant, noticed that his mother was trembling, and that his father's face had grown very stern.

"She is called Miss Leighton," was the answer. "You never heard of her, Billy; but I expect you have?" he said, addressing Mr. Maloney.

"She is a very rich woman. Her father was James Leighton, the great ironfounder who died so immensely wealthy—"

"Ah, then I have heard of her," Mr. Maloney broke in. "But I thought she was quite a philanthropist—hardly the sort of woman who would act as this Miss Leighton did to-day."

"That is exactly how she would act," Mrs. Pringle said decidedly. "We are speaking of the same person. She gives away vast amounts of money yearly to charities, but she denies herself nothing in order to do so, for she is very wealthy. She was never a woman who showed kindness in little ways or to individuals. I know her well; in fact, she is my aunt."

"Really?" the Vicar said, looking intensely astonished. He knew the Pringles were not well off—that they lived solely on Mr. Pringle's earnings, and it seemed odd that so rich and charitable a lady as Miss Leighton should do so much for strangers and nothing for her relations.

"The truth is, my wife offended her aunt by marrying me," Mr. Pringle explained, rightly reading the expression of Mr. Maloney's countenance; "and Miss Leighton never forgives any one who offends her."

"Yes," said Mrs. Pringle, sighing, "poor Aunt Caroline! She was very good to me years ago, she had me educated when my parents died, and afterwards she allowed me to live with her. She would have continued to provide for me, if I had not become engaged to John," glancing at her husband with a loving smile. "I had to choose between him and Aunt Caroline, and since my marriage I have never seen my aunt. 'She washed her hands of me,' she said, on my wedding day. She declared she would never willingly look on my face again, and I know she will keep her word."

"You can realise now what sacrifices my wife has made for my sake," Mr. Pringle said, rather sadly, as he met Mr. Maloney's interested glance.

"I have made no sacrifices," Mrs. Pringle returned quickly. "But, sometimes it grieves me to think of the bitter feelings Aunt Caroline harbours against me. She considers me ungrateful; I was never that. I do not want her money, but I should like to be on friendly terms with her. It was ten years ago I saw her; she must be getting an old woman."

"She looked very old, mother," Billy said, and as he spoke, Mrs. Pringle started, for in the excitement of talking of her aunt, whom she rarely mentioned now even to her husband, she had forgotten the boy was present, listening to every word.

"Her hair was quite white," he continued, "as white as snow. I didn't like her eyes, they were so very sharp. Oh, mother, how odd that she should be your aunt! And how surprised she would have been, if she had found out that Peggy was your little girl, wouldn't she? I expect she would have been sorry for her, then, don't you think so?"

"I—I—perhaps so," his mother replied, "but she did not find out, and it was best as it was."

She took up the card which her husband had laid on the table and tore it into little bits, which, upon rising, she threw into the fire.

"There, we will talk no more of Aunt Caroline," she said. "Thinking of her always makes me unhappy, and I don't want to be that to-night, when I ought to be feeling nothing but thankfulness on Peggy's account."

A short while later, Mr. Maloney took his departure, and, after that, Billy said good-night to his parents and went upstairs. He peeped into Peggy's room; but did not go in, for Sarah, who was still watching by the bedside, raised a warning finger when she caught sight of him in the doorway. She was to be relieved from her post very soon by her mistress, whose intention it was to sit up all night.

Although Billy was really tired and was soon in bed, it was long before he could get to sleep, for he felt strangely restless and excited; he continually pictured the pair of high-stepping horses which had so nearly trodden his sister beneath their hoofs, and he was haunted by the proud face of the old lady who had appeared so unconcerned.

"She must be very wicked," thought the little boy, "for father said she never forgives any one who offends her. How dreadful that is! Doesn't she know it's wrong, I wonder! And, oh, how strange that she should be mother's aunt! How surprised Peggy will be when she knows!"

Then he forgot Miss Leighton in thinking of Peggy once more. He had not omitted to thank his Father in Heaven, as he had knelt by his bedside before getting into bed, for having spared his sister's life; but his full heart thanked Him again and again as he lay awake mentally reviewing the events of the last few hours, and he fell asleep, at length, with the fervent prayer upon his lips:

CHAPTER III

A MONTH had elapsed since Peggy's accident, and the little girl, though about again, had not recovered her usual health and spirits. Her mother watched her with loving solicitude, noting how shattered her nerves seemed to be, for she started at any sudden sound and dreaded being left alone. The doctor pronounced her to be suffering from the effects of the shock to her nervous system, prescribed a complete change of air, and said time would work a cure.

"How can we send her away for a change?" Mrs. Pringle asked her husband despairingly. "It is impossible."

"I wish you could take her to the seaside for a few weeks, Margaret," Mr. Pringle responded, looking much troubled. "But I really do not see how it can be managed—where the money is to come from, I mean."

"Never mind, father," Peggy said quickly, "I am sure I shall be well soon. I am a lot better, really."

"Do you feel so, darling?" he questioned, as he drew her towards him, and anxiously scrutinised her face.

Then, as she assured him she did, he kissed her gently, an expression of deep pain and regret on his own countenance.

It grieved Mr. Pringle that he could not afford his little daughter the change of air which the doctor had prescribed, and he went off to give a music lesson with a very heavy heart. When he returned, an hour later, upon opening the front door the sound of a man's hearty laugh fell upon his ears, and almost immediately Peggy, with a flush of excitement on her cheeks, came out of the sitting-room, her sensitive ears having warned her of his arrival, and whispered:

"Oh, father, we've a visitor! Guess who it is. But, no, you never will, so I may as well tell you. It's Mr. Tiddy. You remember who he is, don't you? The Cornish gentleman who married Miss Bates."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Pringle, suddenly enlightened. Miss Bates had been a school friend of his wife's. The two had always corresponded regularly, though they had not met of late. Miss Bates had earned her living as a governess until five years previously, when she had married a well-to-do farmer in Cornwall.

"He is a very nice man, father," Peggy continued, "and he's brought us a hamper full of all sorts of good things to eat—cream, and butter, and eggs, and a big cake, which his wife made herself, with a sugary top, and a couple of chickens! Do come and see him at once."

Accordingly Mr. Pringle allowed his little daughter to lead him into the sitting-room, where the visitor was being entertained by Mrs. Pringle and Billy, and after a few minutes' conversation with him, he mentally agreed with Peggy that this new acquaintance was a very nice man.

Ebenezer Tiddy was a thorough countryman in appearance, being clad in a tweed suit, and boots which had evidently been made to keep out inches deep of mud. He was tall and vigorous, with a ruddy, kindly countenance, and steady grey eyes which looked one straight in the face. He had entered the house a complete stranger half an hour before, but already the children were at their ease with him, and Mrs. Pringle was looking decidedly more cheerful than when her husband had left her after their conversation about the doctor's prescription. Mr. Pringle felt glad Mr. Tiddy had come, since his presence had evidently proved exhilarating.

"I arrived in town last night," the visitor explained, "and the first thing this morning I said to myself, 'I'd better execute my wife's business before I attend to my own.' And now you're here, Mr. Pringle, I'll speak of the real object of my visit. Said my wife to me one day last week, 'Ebenezer, how I should like to have little Peggy Pringle to stay with us for a while! Her mother has written to me that she met with an accident and doesn't seem to pick up after it as she ought. I believe a change of air would be the best medicine for her now.'"

Here Mr. Tiddy paused, and looked at Peggy, who, sensitive like all blind people, was fully conscious of his gaze.

"That she'd better write and invite you to visit us at once, my dear, believing, as I do, that Cornish breezes and Cornish living would make you strong in no time. 'But she can't travel alone,' said my wife, who is quicker of thought than I am, 'and how are we to get her here, Ebenezer?' 'That can be easily managed,' I replied; 'when I go to London next week to interview the florist who is going to buy our flowers this spring, I'll ask her parents to trust her to me.' And if they will," concluded Mr. Tiddy, looking smilingly first at Mrs. Pringle, then at her husband, "I am sure I shall be very pleased and proud, and my wife and myself will do our best to make her visit a happy one. The little maid won't have any children for playmates, but I don't think she'll be dull, for there's always something or other to interest folks at a farm, and I need hardly say we'll take good care of her."

"How kind you are!" Mrs. Pringle exclaimed, her face alight with pleasure, "Peggy does indeed need a change very badly, and we have been bemoaning the fact that we could not give her one. I am sure she would be quite happy with you and your wife."

"I remember Miss Bates," said Peggy. "She stayed with us once when I was a little girl."

"I am nine years old," she answered, in a dignified tone. "But I am not very tall for my age."

"Cornish air will make you grow. Will you make up your mind, then, to travel westwards with me? Would your brother care to come too?"

"Billy goes to school, and it is the middle of the term," Mrs. Pringle explained; "being Saturday, it is the weekly holiday: that is why you find him at home now. You are very kind to give him an invitation, but he knows he must not neglect his work."

"He must pay us a visit in his summer holidays, then," said Mr. Tiddy, sympathising with the disappointment he read in the little boy's face. "I shall not forget. And now, Mrs. Pringle, do you think you can part with your little maid on Tuesday? I hope to return to Cornwall as soon as that. I only require one clear day in town to transact my business."

"Peggy can be ready by Tuesday," Mrs. Pringle answered, after a few moments' reflection, whilst Peggy herself felt quite bewildered by the suddenness with which everything was being arranged.

"Come and spend to-morrow with us," suggested Mr. Pringle hospitably, "that is, if you have made no previous engagement."

"I have not. Thank you, I shall be delighted to come," answered Mr. Tiddy, his countenance beaming with pleasure. "I have heard so much of you all from my wife that I can't fancy you were strangers to me till this last hour."

When at length he took his departure, which was after a little further conversation, he seemed quite an old friend, and the children were pleased and excited at the prospect of his visit on the morrow.

"It is as though a load has been lifted off my shoulders," Mr. Pringle confessed, as he returned to the sitting-room after having said good-bye to Mr. Tiddy at the front door. He sat down in an arm-chair as he spoke, and his little daughter took a stool at his feet and rested her golden head against his knee. "It seems so marvellous this invitation should have come for Peggy just at this very time," he proceeded earnestly, "when it seemed utterly impossible to carry out the doctor's prescription. Surely God must have prompted Mr. Tiddy to come to us to-day."

"Yes, and there's no one I would so gladly entrust Peggy to as my old friend," Mrs. Pringle answered contentedly. "You're pleased you're going, are you not, Peggy?" she questioned, noticing a faint shadow on her little daughter's face.

"Y-e-s," was the response, given a trifle doubtfully. The thought of a visit to Cornwall had filled Peggy with a transport of delight at first; but now, she had had time to reflect that she would have no mother and father and Billy with her, and she had never been parted from them before. "I shall miss you all so much," she murmured with quivering lips, "and Cornwall is so far away."

"We shall miss you, little Sunbeam," her father assured her as he softly stroked her curly hair, "but we are glad you are going, because we want you to get well and strong. I believe you will have a most enjoyable time, and, of one thing I am quite certain, that both Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy will be kindness itself. I only hope they won't spoil you and want to keep you altogether."

"I shouldn't stay, if they did," Peggy returned, half indignant at the suggestion. "And—and I'm beginning to wish I wasn't going at all."

She lay awake a long while that night, crying at the thought of the coming separation from her family, but she did not admit it the next morning.

Mr. Tiddy spent Sunday with his new friends as had been arranged, and in the evening he accompanied them to St. John's. After the service, he waited with Mrs. Pringle and the children to hear the voluntary. It was "The Heavens are telling," which Mr. Pringle played at his visitor's request.

"Did you like it, Mr. Tiddy?" Peggy whispered at the conclusion of the piece as they passed out of the church.

"Yes, I liked it," he answered earnestly. "Your father plays the organ beautifully. 'The Heavens are telling the glory of God!' So they do, don't they?" They were in the street by now, Peggy's hand in the firm clasp of her new friend. "I can't tell how folks can prefer to live in town," he proceeded. "Give me the country and plenty of fresh air. Ah, my dear, I'll show you some rare sights in Cornwall—"

"Does it seem to you very dreadful to be blind?" she asked, catching the tone of tender sympathy in his deep voice.

"You know, I shall never see as long as I live, but I think I shall get on very well. Mother says I am very useful in the house. I am learning to do lots of things—to play the piano and to knit, and father says, if he had more money—Oh, here are the others!" And she suddenly broke off.

That was the first occasion on which Peggy had been to church since her accident. Her mother had been doubtful about taking her to-night, and had wanted to leave her at home with Sarah for her companion. But the little girl had begged to be allowed to go, and had gained her own way, and the service had had a beneficial effect upon her, having soothed her nerves instead of having excited them. She slept well that night, and the next day was spent in making preparations for her visit, and passed so busily that when bedtime came again, she was too weary to lie awake thinking of the parting from all those who made up her little world, which was so near at hand.

She was called early on the following morning, and after breakfast—of which she partook but little—and a somewhat tearful good-bye to Billy and Sarah, she drove off in a cab with her parents to Paddington railway station, where she was consigned to the care of Mr. Tiddy, who had already selected a comfortable carriage and procured a foot-warmer for his little charge.

"Good-bye, Peggy, darling," whispered her mother, as the guard bustled by requesting people to take their places. "God bless and protect you, dear."

"Good-bye, little Sunbeam," said her father cheerily, as he lifted her into the carriage and wrapped her up in a rug. "We shall expect you to come back well and strong."

CHAPTER IV

ON a certain bright March morning, Mrs. Tiddy stood beneath the creeper-covered porch at the front door of Lower Brimley Farm, waiting for her husband, who had been up and out-of-doors since daybreak, to return to breakfast. Mr. Tiddy had arrived home from London on the previous evening, having brought Peggy Pringle with him. But the little girl, over-tired as the result of the long journey, had been sleeping firmly when her hostess had visited her bedroom half an hour before, and orders had been given that she was not to be awakened.

The mistress of Lower Brimley was a small-sized woman with a trim figure and a pleasant countenance, which wore a very contented expression at the present moment. The view over which Mrs. Tiddy's blue eyes wandered admiringly was a most beautiful one, for Lower Brimley was situated on the slope of a hill, not ten minutes' walk from the sea and the small fishing village which straggled in one steep street from the beach to the old grey church on the cliff.

The soft air was sweet with the scent of flowers on this sunny spring morning, for the land close by was given up to the cultivation of daffodils and narcissi of nearly every species, which flourished in the rich moist soil and were now in full bloom, and the garden in front of the house was a fine show, too, with violets, hyacinths, and purple and scarlet anemones, against a background of rhododendron bushes. In short, there was a wealth of flowers everywhere; and as Mrs. Tiddy's contemplative gaze roamed over her own domain to the distant sea, glimmering like silver in the bright sunshine, it was caught and held by the golden furze on the cliffs, and she murmured admiringly:

"What a glorious sight! And to think that that dear child will never know how beautiful it all is! How sad to be blind!"

An expression of deep regret crossed Mrs. Tiddy's face as she thought of her little visitor; but it gave place to a bright smile as she caught sight of her husband approaching. And she ran down the path to the garden gate to meet him, anxious to hear that he had found everything on the farm in good order. She was soon satisfied upon that point, for he was in high spirits, and complimented her upon her management during his absence. And then they went into the house together, and sat down to breakfast in the parlour, a large comfortably-furnished room, the windows of which commanded a view of the village and the sea.

"She was sleeping firmly half an hour ago and I have given orders that she is not to be disturbed," his wife-responded. "She was so very tired last night, and I fancy she felt home-sick—poor little soul! She has never been away from her own people before, you see, and oh, Ebenezer, think how helpless one must feel to be always in darkness!"

"Yes," he agreed, "but though she has been denied sight, her other senses seem preternaturally keen. It's always the way with blind people, I've heard. And—why, here she comes!"

Mr. Tiddy rose as the door opened, and Peggy stood hesitating upon the threshold of the room. Going to her side, he gave her a hearty kiss, inquired how she was this morning, and, having been assured that she was quite well, led her to his wife.

"I thought you were still in bed and asleep, my dear child," said Mrs. Tiddy, her voice expressing the surprise she felt.

"I woke up, and I was afraid I was late for breakfast, so I dressed as quickly as I could and came down," Peggy explained, as she returned Mrs. Tiddy's kiss and took the chair by her side.

"Clever!" laughed Peggy. "You forget I had my supper in this room last night, and I heard your voices as I came downstairs. What a lovely morning, isn't it? I smelt violets and hyacinths when I opened my bedroom window, and I heard the sea."

"The sea is very calm to-day, almost as still as a mill-pond," remarked Mr. Tiddy somewhat dubiously. "You must have very sharp ears, if you heard it."

"Oh, but I did," persisted Peggy. "The waves were whispering ever so softly, but I heard them. I was never at the seaside but once before, when we all went to Bournemouth for a week, nearly two years ago."

The little girl was looking very bright this morning, and she did full justice to the fried bacon and chopped potatoes to which Mr. Tiddy helped her, remarking, as he did so, that he hoped she could enjoy country fare. And at the conclusion of the meal, he suggested that she should put on her hat and jacket and go for a stroll with him about the farm, whilst his wife attended to her domestic duties in the house.

Accordingly, Peggy accompanied her host out into the brilliant spring sunshine, and asked him numerous questions about his flowers. He explained all about their cultivation, and watched her with keenly interested eyes as she felt the various blooms with her sensitive fingers.

"I shall remember all you have told me," she declared. "This is a 'Princess Mary,' is it not? And this is the daffodil you said the country people call 'butter and eggs'?"

"I can feel the difference, Mr. Tiddy, and I can smell. It seems to me all these daffodils have different scents."

"To me, they are alike," he admitted, "but I suppose they are not. Really, Peggy, you are a very clever little girl."

When they returned to the house they went by the back way, where, in the yard, they were met by a big, black-and-white smooth-haired sheep-dog, who sniffed at Peggy suspiciously at first. But when she ventured to extend her hand to him, he licked it with his great pink tongue, whilst a very soft expression crept into his amber eyes.

"He likes you, my dear," Mr. Tiddy said. "And he does not take to every one, let me tell you. He evidently intends to regard you as a friend."

"What is his name?" Peggy inquired, as she passed her hand over the dog's sleek head.

"Wolf. We gave him the name when he was a puppy, because he was such a lean, fierce-looking creature. He is a splendid house-dog; but he is not very sociable, as a rule. He seems to have taken a fancy to you, however."

"He knows I like him," Peggy said, as she caressed her new acquaintance, who continued to wag his tail amicably. "What a tall dog he is! Wolf—dear old Wolf!"

"I'm glad he's taken to you," he said. "For you couldn't get a better protector than Wolf."

Peggy never forgot that first day at Lower Brimley. The afternoon she passed quietly in the house with Mrs. Tiddy, who wrote a long letter to her old school fellow in which were many messages from Peggy.

"Tell her how much I miss them all," said the little girl. "But please say, too, that I am sure I shall be very happy here, because every one is so kind to me, and it is a lovely, lovely place! And, please don't forget to send my dear love!" And for a few minutes, her blue eyes were full of tears.

"Peggy," said Mrs. Tiddy by-and-by, "I have heard all the details in connection with your accident from my husband, and I do not wonder it was a shock to your nerves. Is your shoulder quite well now, dear?"

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Tiddy. It got well very quickly. Every one said it was a wonder I was not killed; but I think myself God took especial care of me, because He knew I wasn't quite like other people—not being able to see, you know. Mr. Maloney—that's the Vicar of St. John's—thinks so too. Wasn't it strange that it should have been mother's aunt who was in the carriage?"

"Billy and I never heard of her at all till my accident. I don't think she can be nice; and Billy said she looked very proud. I heard her speak, but I was too frightened then to take much notice of her voice. I always tell what people are like by their voices."

"Yes," Peggy nodded. "I knew Mr. Tiddy was good and kind, the moment I heard him speak: I felt I could trust him. Do you know, I quite enjoyed the journey yesterday, after we had properly started. Of course, I didn't like saying good-bye to mother and father. I had never been in a corridor-train before, and we had dinner at a big table just as though we were in a proper room, and there was a kitchen on the train, and cooks. Oh, how Billy would have liked to have been there! What a lot I shall have to tell him when I go home! Oh, Mrs. Tiddy, it was kind of you to think of inviting me to stay with you!"

"I am sure your visit will be a great pleasure to me, my dear," Mrs. Tiddy replied cordially. "And I shall be well content, if I can send you home with roses in your cheeks. To-morrow I will take you into the village and down to the beach; but I must not let you do too much on your first day. There, I have finished my letter, and can now have an idle hour before tea."

She put aside her writing materials as she spoke, and went to the window, where Peggy was seated, listening to the sparrows twittering beneath the eaves of the roof and the sound of children's voices wafted upwards from the village below.

"You and Mr. Tiddy are so very kind to take so much trouble to explain everything to me," the little girl said, with a grateful ring in her sweet, clear voice, "that I am already beginning to know this place quite well—the house and the grounds, too."

"Oh, please!" Peggy answered delightedly. Then as her kind hostess did so, she listened with attention, her face aglow with interest and pleasure. "How well you make me understand!" she cried, as Mrs. Tiddy ceased speaking. She leaned her head out of the open window and sniffed the fresh salt breeze appreciatively, and listened to the murmur of the sea. It seemed a very beautiful world to Peggy in spite of her lack of sight.

CHAPTER V

IN a very few days, Peggy had settled into the routine of life at Lower Brimley, and had become well known by sight to the villagers, who took a kindly interest in Mrs. Tiddy's guest—"the pretty little maid," as they called her, who, though she was blind, could play the piano, so the servants at the farm reported, and was so clever that wherever she went once she could go by herself a second time.

Accompanied by the lean, long-legged sheep-dog, she was now a familiar figure on the beach, where she would sit for hours, listening to the incessant murmur of the sea or talking to the fishermen, whose deep voices insensibly softened in addressing her. For nowhere so much as in Cornwall is more respect shown to those whom God has afflicted; and, though Peggy knew it not, she was continually watched by friendly eyes to see that she came to no harm.

Mrs. Tiddy, who had been nervous about letting her visitor wander out of her sight at first, soon grew less vigilant, and was quite satisfied if she knew Wolf was with her, for the dog had constituted himself her faithful companion, and showed marked signs of jealousy, if any stranger came near her.

One afternoon, about a week after her arrival at Lower Brimley, Peggy was standing in a gateway waiting for Mr. Tiddy, who had gone across a meadow to look at some sheep, when Wolf, as usual at her side, gave a low, warning growl and drew closer to her. She put her hand on the dog's collar and listened, hearing at length the sound of footsteps slowly approaching. Some one was evidently ascending the hill which led from the village to the farm.

After that one growl, Wolf remained silent, and Peggy did not move as the footsteps drew near. But when they suddenly stopped, the little girl, still holding the dog by the collar, turned her face, with an inquiring expression upon it, towards the spot where she knew some one—a woman, she thought, from the sound of the footsteps—to be.

"Can you tell me, if this is the way to Lower Brimley Farm?" asked a somewhat patronising voice—the voice of a lady, Peggy's sharp ears informed her at once.

"Yes," the little girl answered. "You will come within sight of the house, I know, when you turn the next corner. Are you going to call on Mrs. Tiddy? Perhaps you are a friend of hers? She is not at home; she has driven in to Penzance."

"And I have driven from Penzance. But I have no acquaintance with Mrs. Tiddy—the mistress at the farm, I presume? I have no desire to see her, but I want to have a look at her flowers. I am told the daffodils and narcissi at Lower Brimley are especially fine. People talk so much nowadays of the flower-farms of Cornwall that I am curious to see one."

The speaker—a tall, thin, erect old lady, with snow-white hair and very sharp dark eyes, looked carelessly at the child, and proceeded to question her: "Do you live here? Are you the farmer's daughter?"

"No; I am no relation to either Mr. or Mrs. Tiddy, although they are so very kind to me," Peggy answered simply. "My home is in London; I am only here on a visit. I am sure Mr. Tiddy will let you look at his flowers; he is very proud of them, and no wonder, for they are so beautiful! He has gone across the meadow, but he will return directly. Perhaps you can see him?"

"Yes, that's Mr. Tiddy. I promised to wait here with Wolf—that's the dog—till he came back. Is he far off? Is he coming this way?"

"Cannot you use your eyes, child?" began the lady, a trifle impatiently. Then she paused abruptly, and scanned the little girl's face with keener scrutiny.

The stranger's voice had softened perceptibly, and sounded no longer indifferent. Peggy, conscious of the change, smiled, and a faint colour rose to her pale cheeks as she remarked:

"I am very happy. Mother says I must always remember how many blessings God has given me, and so I do. Oh, here is Mr. Tiddy!" the little girl cried, with a sudden change of tone.

The farmer came up, glancing curiously at Peggy's companion, who now put forward a request—it sounded almost like a command—to see his flowers, adding that she had come from Penzance on purpose to look at them, and had left her carriage at the foot of the hill.

"You are just in time to see them at their best," Mr. Tiddy told her pleasantly. "In another week, I shall have cut them all: we rear them for the London markets. Lead the way, Peggy. A little friend of ours from town," he explained, lowering his voice as the child and the dog went on ahead. "She's been laid up ill and hasn't picked up her health and spirits yet. We're trying what our Cornish air will do for her."

"I trust it will do wonders," said the lady, and her voice, though still cold in tone, was not ungracious. "She looks a delicate child, and she tells me, she is blind."

"Ah, yes, poor dear," sighed Mr. Tiddy. "Though I don't know why I should pity her," he proceeded, "for she's as happy as the day is long. Her father—he's the organist of St. John's in the East End of London—calls her 'little Sunbeam,' and the name just suits her. Her mother and my wife were school friends, and—but here we are!"

The stranger was evidently much gratified by the sight of the flowers, and she was greatly impressed by the knowledge Peggy evinced concerning them. And the more she conversed with Mr. Tiddy, the more gracious her manner became, till by-and-by she asked him if there were comfortable lodgings to be had in the neighbourhood.

"There's a farm higher up the hill, the adjoining farm to this, Higher Brimley it's called—where they let apartments during the summer months," he replied. "I expect they'd consider themselves fortunate, if they obtained a lodger as early in the year as this. Ford, the people are called, and Mrs. Ford is a nice, respectable woman who'd make you very comfortable."

"Never," was the decisive answer. "My wife has plenty of work to do in connection with the poultry and the dairy, and—to be plain—we like our home to ourselves."

When the lady had gazed her fill at the daffodils, Mr. Tiddy led the way into the garden, which she declared to be her idea of what a country garden should be. The kindly farmer, pleased at her admiration for his belongings, thereupon invited her into the house, and had tea brought into the parlour. "I wish my wife was at home," he observed regretfully, "but Peggy must play hostess in her place."

"And a very nice little hostess she makes," replied the old lady, her curious gaze upon the child, who was offering her some of Mrs. Tiddy's home-made cake. "Do you always treat strangers as you are treating me?" she inquired, turning to Mr. Tiddy again. "I have heard of Cornish hospitality, but I never believed in it till now. You don't know anything about me—" She paused and laughed rather bitterly, then added: "Most people would not think it worth while to entertain a stranger—one never likely to cross their path in life again."

"Then you do not mean to seek lodgings in the district?" Mr. Tiddy asked gravely.

"I have not made up my mind on that point yet. I almost think I could be contented in a spot like this."

Having finished her tea, she rose and prepared to depart. Mr. Tiddy now noted for the first time, how costly was her dress—evidently she was a woman rich in this world's goods—and he thought as he glanced at the deep lines of discontent around her hard mouth, that, in spite of her undeniably handsome face, she was the most ill-tempered looking old lady he had seen for many a long day, and doubted much if she would be contented anywhere.

"Good-bye, child," she said stretching out her delicately-gloved hand to Peggy. "It is quite possible that we may meet again."

"If we do, I shall remember you," was the grave response. "I shall remember you by your voice. And I can't help thinking that somewhere we have met before, or perhaps it is only that you remind me of some one—that must be it."

The lady looked at Peggy searchingly, and shook her head. Then she went away, leaving the little girl in a very thoughtful frame of mind. When Mr. Tiddy returned, after having accompanied the stranger down the hill and placed her in the hired carriage in which she had been driven from Penzance, he asked Peggy what she thought of their late visitor.

"Unhappy?" he said, reflectively. "I don't know about that. To me she appeared simply discontented. She is a selfish woman, I'll be bound—so maybe you're right, my dear, for selfish folk are never happy—and wrapped up in her own concerns. But she liked my daffodils, didn't she? I could see she had a real love for flowers. And she was interested in you, too. One mustn't judge by appearances altogether—"

"I judge by her voice," said Peggy, as he broke off, leaving his sentence unfinished.

"That's a great age, isn't it? I wonder if she is always alone like she was to-day. Perhaps she has no one to love and care for her now she is old. How sad that must be! Poor old lady!" And there was deepest sympathy in her tone.

Mr. Tiddy looked at the speaker with a tender smile; but he did not think it worth while to say that, to him, their visitor had appeared anything but poor. Perhaps, he reflected, the child might be right after all, for he knew how often those rich in worldly possessions are poor in heart.

CHAPTER VI

THE daffodil blooms had all been gathered; March had given place to April; and, day by day, Peggy was improving in health, whilst roses—faint as yet, it is true—were appearing in her cheeks. The doctor's prescription of a change of air was evidently what she had needed; and Mrs. Tiddy was much gratified at being able to write most cheering reports of her visitor's condition to Mrs. Pringle, who read them aloud to her husband and Billy with deep thankfulness in her heart.

"How we shall miss the child when she leaves us!" Mr. Tiddy remarked to his wife one evening, as they strolled up and down the path in front of the house when the work of the day was over, listening to the music which Peggy's fingers were drawing from the piano in the parlour. The little girl was naturally musical and had been well taught by her father, who had often told her that if she worked hard and practised industriously, she might become a real musician some day, and to be a real musician was her most earnest desire.

"But she is not going to leave us for a long while yet," Mrs. Tiddy responded. "I have written and told her mother that she must spare her to us for another month, at least, and I think she will be glad to let her stay, as her health is benefiting so much by our Cornish air. By the way, Ebenezer, have you heard that there are lodgers at Higher Brimley? No? An elderly lady and her maid have taken Mrs. Ford's apartments. They were pointed out to me in the village this afternoon when Peggy and I were returning from the beach. And Peggy says she is sure the lady is the one who came from Penzance on purpose to look at our flowers. She is a tall, thin, old lady with quite white hair."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed the farmer. "I told her she could get apartments at Higher Brimley, but I did not think she really meant to see about them. Did she speak to Peggy?"

"No; she did not see her, for we were in the post office when she passed with her maid. Peggy recognised her by her voice."

They stood silently by the open window of the parlour and listened as the little girl's voice, low and sweet in tone, rang out clearly and softly:

"Holy Father, cheer our way
With Thy love's perpetual ray:
Grant us every closing day
Light at evening time."

"Dear child," murmured Mrs. Tiddy, tears springing involuntarily to her eyes, "it does seem hard lines that one naturally so bright and joyous should be blind! But there, God knows best, and I suppose He has denied her sight for some good reason; and she has His love to cheer her way, I'm certain."

"I think there's light in her heart," said Mr. Tiddy simply, and his wife agreed.

It was on the following morning that Peggy, who had wandered down to the beach with Wolf in attendance, met the lodgers from Higher Brimley. The old lady spoke to the little girl, and inquired if she remembered her. And, receiving an answer in the affirmative, she dismissed her maid, telling her to wait within sight, and requested Peggy to sit down by her side on an upturned boat, and talk to her for a while.

Peggy complied readily, for she was of a very sociable disposition, and commenced the conversation by informing her companion that she had recognised her voice when she had heard it on the previous day.

"I was in the post office with Mrs. Tiddy when you passed," she said, "and you were talking. We were told you had taken Mrs. Ford's rooms."

"I do not know how long I shall remain there-perhaps only a few days, perhaps longer. I suppose the daffodils are all gone now?"

"Yes," Peggy nodded regretfully; "but there are more flowers than ever in the garden, and those will not be cut. Mr. Tiddy grows them for himself and his friends; but the daffodils and narcissi, he sells."

"You are looking better than when I saw you before," observed the stranger. "I suppose you will be going home soon?"

"Not for some weeks yet. Oh, yes, I am a lot better! I feel really well; and Mrs. Tiddy says I am getting quite rosy and sunburnt. I am so glad, because they will be pleased at home."

"No. I have only one brother—Billy. Father is the organist of St. John's, but I do not expect you know the church. Mr. Maloney is our Vicar. He's a great friend of ours. I'm sure you'd like him, because he's such a good man. Mother says he's very clever, and people come a long distance often to hear him preach, so I suppose he must be."

"I think I've heard of him," said the old lady thoughtfully. "He gives up his life to working amongst the poor, does he not?"

"Yes. Nearly every one in our parish is poor. Mr. Maloney is, I believe, and we are, you know, because father's salary isn't much, and his music pupils don't pay him as they ought. But father is very clever, too, and some day I dare say we shall be better off. Father composes music, and there are very few people who can do that," the little girl said, with a ring of affectionate pride in her voice. "Do you live in London, too?" she inquired, thinking it was her turn to ask a question now.

"I have a house in town. Will you come and spend a day with me there when we both go back to our own homes?"

"I—I hardly know," Peggy replied doubtfully, flushing with surprise. "It's very kind of you to invite me; but I must ask mother. I don't know who you are, and—"

"It is Margaret Pringle; but I am always called Peggy, because father calls mother Margaret."

"Pringle!" exclaimed the old lady, growing suddenly crimson. She looked almost angrily at Peggy as she spoke, but of course the little girl was unconscious of that fact, though she caught the sound of agitation in her voice. "Pringle!" she repeated. "Is it possible? Tell me, is your father's name John?"

"Yes. You have heard of him?" Since her companion had evinced some knowledge of the Vicar of St. John's, it did not occur to Peggy as at all unlikely that she should know something of the organist too. "He plays most beautifully," she continued impressively. "Mr. Tiddy will tell you so, for he heard him one Sunday evening when he went to church with us. It was the first time I had been to church after my accident. Oh, I haven't told you about that! I was knocked down when I was out with Billy, and it was a great wonder that I was not killed!"

And she recounted the story of her adventure at some length, utterly unconscious of the effect it was having upon her listener, who had lost all her colour again now, and was looking paler than before.

"The—the person in the carriage would not have understood that you were blind," the old lady remarked at length, subsequent to a long pause which had followed the conclusion of Peggy's tale.

"No, of course not," the little girl agreed, "but Mr. Maloney says the least she could have done would have been to have driven me home. Billy thinks she didn't care, if I was hurt or not. And—isn't it strange?—she's supposed to be a very charitable person!"

"Oh, yes! She gave the policeman her card, and mother used to know her quite well—years ago."

"I—I am afraid I have been talking too much," Peggy said hesitatingly, with a sudden touch of reserve in her tone as she became aware that she had let her tongue run away with her. She hoped she had not wearied her companion with her chatter.

"Why did you say she—the person in the carriage, I mean—is supposed to be very charitable?" asked the old lady presently.

"Yes. But I don't think she can be really charitable, if she isn't kind in little ways and if she's unforgiving. I asked Mr. Maloney what he thought."

"He repeated that verse in the Corinthians, 'Though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.' He didn't say anything but that; but I know what he meant, don't you? But, don't let us talk about her any more—I am not sure that I ought to have spoken of her at all."

"You have done no harm. So that accident was actually the cause of your illness?"

"Yes. And just when the doctor said I must have a change of air, Mr. Tiddy arrived and invited me here. Wasn't it kind of him, and of Mrs. Tiddy too? You know I couldn't possibly have had a change but for them, for father couldn't have managed it, and it made him so dreadfully unhappy that he couldn't. Both he and mother were so worried about me."

Soon after that the old lady rose, remarking that she found the wind a trifle chilly. She said good-bye to Peggy and joined her maid with the intention of returning to her lodgings. Left alone, the little girl reflected that her late companion had been decidedly less affable at the conclusion of their conversation, than at the commencement, and wondered why that had been. Had she unwittingly said anything to cause her annoyance? She felt puzzled and uneasy; and, though she had been encouraged to talk, she wished she had been less communicative.

Meanwhile the old lady, who, as the reader has no doubt guessed, was no other than Miss Leighton, Mrs. Pringle's aunt, was walking up the hill towards Higher Brimley in anything but a happy frame of mind. That morning she had spoken of remaining some while longer in Cornwall, and had professed herself quite satisfied with the arrangements which had been made for her comfort; but now, she had almost decided to quit the neighbourhood at once.

She had been greatly attracted by the blind child on the occasion of her visit from Penzance to look at Mr. Tiddy's flowers. And when she had caught sight of her on the beach an hour previously, she had determined to cultivate her acquaintance. But having learnt that Peggy was the daughter of the niece whom she had never forgiven for what she called her ingratitude, she was experiencing mingled feelings of anger, bitterness, and regret.

Then she shuddered as she reflected on the accident. How terrible it would have been if her horses had killed Margaret's little daughter! She had made no inquiries concerning her niece since her marriage and had not even known where she was living, or if she had any children or not. Therefore, it had been somewhat of a shock to discover she had a child who was afflicted with blindness. She pictured Peggy, golden-haired and sunny-faced, and an unwonted expression of tenderness crossed her countenance. After all, she decided, she would remain at Higher Brimley for the time, for—it was weak of her, no doubt—she felt she must see Peggy once again.

CHAPTER VII

NOT quite a week later, Mr. Tiddy, crossing the fields in his usual leisurely fashion towards the house at dinner-time, caught sight of his wife and Peggy, standing at the garden gate, evidently waiting for him. As he drew near enough to see the expression of their faces, he noticed that both appeared excited, and as he joined them the little girl cried eagerly:

"Oh, Mr. Tiddy, we've had a visitor! She came and knocked at the door and asked if she might go round the garden. And who do you think she was?"

"Why, the old lady who's lodging at Higher Brimley, to be sure," answered Mr. Tiddy promptly, evincing no surprise. "I met her this morning, and she stopped and spoke to me. She expressed a desire to see our flowers, so I told her, she'd be welcome to look at them, whenever she pleased. She didn't lose much time in taking me at my word," he concluded, smilingly.

"Ah, but do you know who she is?" demanded Peggy. "No, we thought not. You'll be simply astounded when you hear. She didn't tell us until just as she was leaving, and then she said her name was Leighton, and that I was related to her—distantly related, she said. She's mother's Aunt Caroline, the rich lady who was in the carriage when—"

"What!" broke in the farmer, "You don't say so!" He looked questioningly at his wife as he spoke, and she hastened to reply:

"Yes, Ebenezer, it is true. There can be no doubt about it. She is that rich Miss Leighton of whom we have heard so much."

"I told her who I was that day she talked to me on the beach," Peggy said, with face and voice full of excitement. "She asked me my name; and—and I told her, too, all about my accident and how unkind we thought it of her to have driven away when I was hurt. I think perhaps she was cross at what I said, but I never dreamt who she was, so I don't think really it was my fault, do you, Mr. Tiddy?"

"Still, perhaps I ought not to have talked as I did to a stranger. She was very nice to-day, though, wasn't she, Mrs. Tiddy?"

Then as the little girl obeyed, Mrs. Tiddy turned to her husband and said gravely:

"Ebenezer, what can have brought Miss Leighton here? Until Peggy told her her name the other day, she had no idea who she was or even that her niece had children. I don't believe she has forgiven Peggy's mother yet. Isn't it shocking to bear malice in one's heart so long? 'I don't wish to hear anything concerning your friend or her husband,' she said to me in a tone without an atom of feeling in it; 'but I was never one for visiting the sins of the parents upon the children. My niece proved herself ungrateful, and I regard ingratitude as a sin, but I feel no resentment against her innocent daughter.' I should think not indeed! I made no answer, however, for I was afraid, if I did, I might say too much."

"Surely she did not make that remark before Peggy!" exclaimed Mr. Tiddy, his ruddy colour deepening with indignation.

"No, certainly not; Peggy was not within hearing then. What shall I do? Miss Leighton asked me to call on her and bring Peggy with me, and I half promised I would; I did not like to refuse. I think the old lady has taken a fancy to the child. Isn't it strange that those two should have crossed each other's path again?"

The farmer nodded, a very thoughtful expression on his face. "There's One above Who planned they should meet, that's my opinion," he said gravely; "and I don't think we ought to try to keep them apart. Maybe the old lady will get to feel more kindly towards her niece when she knows Peggy better and realises what a dear little soul she is and how well her mother has brought her up. I am sure Mrs. Pringle will not object to your taking the child to call on her aunt. By the way, does Miss Leighton like her lodgings?"

"She said they were fairly comfortable. She strikes me as a rather dissatisfied body. She is anything but a happy woman, Ebenezer, though God has given her so much; and I hear from the servants, who have become friendly with her maid, that she is a very jealous, exacting temper, and she is always imagining people are trying to cultivate her acquaintance on account of her wealth."

"Well, she cannot possibly imagine that about you," Mr. Tiddy replied, "for she has sought your acquaintance herself. I suppose we had better go in to dinner now. There's Peggy under the porch beckoning to us."

Mrs. Tiddy decided she would not call upon Miss Leighton until she had mentioned the matter to her old school friend; so she wrote to her that same day, and received an answer by return of post. Mrs. Pringle said very little about her aunt in her letter, but she raised no objection to her little daughter's calling with Mrs. Tiddy at Higher Brimley. "Aunt Caroline is not fond of young people," she remarked, "so please don't force the child upon her notice—but I am sure you will not do that."

"I certainly will not," Mrs. Tiddy reflected as she folded up her friend's letter, "but I will take Peggy to call on Miss Leighton, as the old lady made a point of my doing so. We need not stay very long, any way."

Peggy experienced a feeling of unusual shyness when, one April afternoon, she accompanied Mrs. Tiddy to Higher Brimley; and, although Miss Leighton received them with every sign of cordiality, she was anything but at ease in her presence. As the little girl sat in silence listening to the conversation of the two ladies, she was aware that the elder's eyes were upon her, and she alternately flushed and paled as she thought over the small amount of information she had gleaned from her mother since her accident about this aunt of hers. Her tender heart had gone out in sympathy towards the old lady, whom she had sincerely pitied because she had fancied she might be all alone in the world, but now she mentally regarded her from quite another point of view.

"Mother would have loved her, if she would have let her," she reflected. "It is her own fault if she is lonely. I wonder if she will speak of mother to me!"

But Miss Leighton did not once mention her niece's name. She addressed herself very kindly to Peggy every now and again, and seemed wishful to make much of her, and Mrs. Tiddy saw she was disappointed and half-vexed by the child's evident disinclination to talk.

"What have you done with your dog this afternoon?" Miss Leighton inquired, when at length her visitors rose to go.

"We shut him up in the stable before we started," Peggy answered. "He wanted to come because he loves a walk."

"He is rather quarrelsome with other dogs," Mrs. Tiddy explained, "so we thought it wiser to leave him at home. The poor creature was very disappointed, for he spends most of his time with Peggy now, and we always feel she is safe if Wolf is with her."

"What will he do when he loses her altogether?" asked Miss Leighton. "Peggy does not propose taking him back with her to London, I presume?"

"No," the little girl answered, accepting the question seriously, "I wouldn't do that, even if Mr. Tiddy would give him to me, for I am sure he would be wretched in town. I'd rather know he is here, guarding the yard and looking after the sheep, and going on as he always does—having such a good time! He will miss me at first, but—where is Mrs. Tiddy?" she asked quickly.

They had left the house and were in the garden now, Mrs. Tiddy having lingered at the door to exchange a few words with Mrs. Ford.

"She is talking to my landlady," Miss Leighton replied. "She will be here presently. Are you in a great hurry to go? You have no objection to being alone with me for a few minutes, I suppose?" she questioned sharply.

"Oh! No!" Peggy assured her. "And—and now we are alone, I should like to say that I hope I wasn't rude to you the other day on the beach," she proceeded, looking distressed. "I would not have spoken like that if—if I had known who you were. I—I have thought of it often since, and I am sorry if I said anything you did not like. I was afraid, afterwards, that you were displeased with me."

"People are seldom pleased to hear others' opinions of themselves," was the dry response. "You evidently considered my conduct towards you had been heartless; but I am not angry with you, child. You only said frankly what you thought."

"Yes," Peggy agreed, colouring hotly in her confusion. "I am glad you are not angry, though, because I did not mean to be rude, and I am afraid I must have been," she added deprecatingly.

"I think you are prejudiced against me." Miss Leighton paused momentarily, and sighed, then continued, "Well, it is natural you should be. I am sorry, nevertheless. Cannot you dismiss all you have heard of me from your mind and take me as you find me?"

"I—I will try. I have not heard much about you, indeed! I never heard of you at all till after my accident! Then Billy told me who you were, and I was so surprised! Billy and I have often talked of you since!"

"Really? I dare say you heard Mrs. Tiddy ask me to take tea with her one afternoon, soon? I shall hope then to hear you play. I hear you are quite a musician."

"Oh, no! But I love music. I play to Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy every night." The mantle of reserve was falling from Peggy and the brightness was returning to her face. "Do you love music too?" she inquired, lifting her sightless blue eyes to her companion's countenance.

"Oh, we have more than that, for I am sure you love flowers, and so do I. Do you know, there are such a lot of sea-pinks growing on the cliffs—"

"Oh, no! But I have been several times with Mr. Tiddy, and I hold fast to his hand. There is a sheep-track along the cliffs, you know, and it is quite safe if you keep to that. I could find my way alone, I am sure, but I never mean to try, because I have promised, I won't."

"That's well. Perhaps you and I might walk there together some day. Do you think you could put up with an old woman for a companion?"

"And you shall show me the sea-pinks, and we will take Wolf to protect us both. But do not call me 'Miss Leighton,' child; call me 'Aunt Caroline,' for you are my great-niece and—and I should like to be kind to you."

CHAPTER VIII

MISS LEIGHTON'S maid—Ellen Barnes—was a plain, sad-faced, middle-aged woman who had been with her present employer for many years. She had known Mrs. Pringle before her marriage, and consequently, it was with considerable satisfaction and some astonishment that she saw the interest with which her mistress regarded the daughter of the niece, the very existence of whom she had ignored so long.

It cannot be said that Miss Leighton was on anything like confidential terms with her maid; but she trusted her, and she would have certainly been at a loss without the services of the quiet, rather spiritless woman who rarely spoke except in answer to a question.

Miss Leighton had now been nearly a fortnight at Higher Brimley, and had had several interviews with her little great-niece on the beach, and had walked with her along the sheep-track on the cliffs to look at the sea-pinks. But she had not yet taken tea with Mrs. Tiddy as had been suggested, and when, one sunshiny morning, Peggy arrived with an invitation for her to do so that afternoon, she accepted it immediately.

"Of course I will come," she replied, after Peggy—rosy with the exercise of walking—had delivered her message. "Please give my kind regards to Mrs. Tiddy and say I accept her invitation with pleasure. Did you walk here by yourself, child?"

"No," answered Peggy. She had been ushered into Miss Leighton's sitting-room by Ellen Barnes, who had been on an errand to the post office for her mistress and had overtaken the little girl on her way home. "I started to come alone," she said, "but I had not gone far before I heard some one calling to me. It was Barnes. So we walked on together. What a very nice woman she is, Aunt Caroline! We had such a long talk!"

"Humph!" exclaimed Miss Leighton, rather surprised. "And, pray, what did you find to talk about?"

"Oh, about things at home, first of all," was the somewhat vague response. "My home, of course I mean. I did not know till to-day that Barnes knew my mother."

The little girl had taken the chair which had been placed for her close to the open window by which Miss Leighton was sitting, and the bright spring sunshine fell full upon her face framed in its golden curls. Certainly she made a very pretty picture.

"I like Barnes," she proceeded in a tone of decision as her companion vouchsafed no response. "How very fortunate you are to have such a nice woman for your maid, Aunt Caroline!"

"I believe she is thoroughly trustworthy," Miss Leighton remarked, somewhat astonished at this expression of opinion, "and that is a great deal to be able to say of any one. Barnes has been with me many years. I pay her good wages and she is not overworked. I believe she values her situation."

"How can you tell, child?" Miss Leighton asked, a slightly amused smile curving her lips.

"Did she?" There was gratification in the old lady's voice. "But—how strange of her to say so to you! She must have been very confidential."

"She was telling me about her brother, and how she values her situation with you because you pay her such good wages that she is able to send home more than half she earns. Oh, Aunt Caroline, when she told me about her brother, I thought how thankful I ought to be that God has only made me blind! Suppose I was like poor Barnes's brother: how much worse that would be!"

"What about Barnes's brother?" inquired Miss Leighton, in utter bewilderment. "I have never heard anything about my maid's relations; she has a week's holiday every summer; I suppose she goes to see them then. Stay—I think I remember hearing her once mention a mother, who, by the way, must be a very old woman, for Barnes herself is quite middle-aged."

"Barnes's mother is more than eighty years old, and she lives in a little village near Plymouth with her son. Oh, Aunt Caroline, he is only two years younger than Barnes, and he has been an idiot all his life!"

"Dear me!" exclaimed Miss Leighton, feeling really shocked. "I never heard that before. Barnes never told me."

Peggy looked intensely surprised for a minute, then an expression of comprehension crossed her face. "I expect she did not like to tell you," she said. "Perhaps she thought you would not be interested, you know."

The little girl was silent. She had heard Mrs. Tiddy say that Barnes looked a broken-spirited woman; and Mrs. Ford, when she had called at Lower Brimley a few days previously, had declared her to be a perfect slave to her mistress's whims, and wondered why she did not seek another situation with some one who, at any rate, would be less inconsiderate and exacting. In the conversation the little girl had had with Barnes, she had discovered the reason which induced her to keep her post. It was because it enabled her to do so much for her poor mother and her imbecile brother in their cottage home.

"Why should you think that?" Miss Leighton persisted. "Come, speak out, child! Don't be afraid of me!"

"I'm not," Peggy answered truthfully, for she was not in the least in awe of the old lady. "I meant that—that perhaps if you have never asked Barnes about her relations, she would think you would not care to hear about them. But it does seem so very odd that she should have lived with you so many years, and you should not know all about her mother and brother!"

"Yes; but Barnes and her mother are very fond of him; it would break her mother's heart to be parted from him, and Barnes says they shall never be separated as long as God gives her health and strength to work. They get parish pay, and with what Barnes sends them they manage to live pretty comfortably. Oh, Aunt Caroline, mustn't it be dreadful to have a brother like that! Oh dear, I do think it is so very sad!" And the pitiful tears rose to Peggy's blue eyes and ran down her cheeks.

"You mustn't take other people's troubles to heart like that!" Miss Leighton exclaimed hastily.

"I feel so sorry for Barnes," Peggy said, with deepest sorrow in her tone, "because I am sure it must make her very unhappy to think of her brother and her old mother sometimes. She must wish to see them so much, and always be wondering how they are getting on. Mrs. Tiddy says Barnes looks a very sad woman. I wish I could do something to make her happier."

"I said so to her just now," she continued, with a brightening face, "and what do you think she answered? That I had helped her by being sorry for her brother; she said she wouldn't have told me anything about him if I hadn't been afflicted myself, and it warmed her heart to know I cared. I told her I should pray to God every night to make her brother right in his mind, and she said she was afraid that would never be in this world. Poor fellow! He's like me, Aunt Caroline, in that way, isn't he? He will have to bear his cross as long as he lives, and his cross is so much heavier than mine."

A silence followed, during which Miss Leighton sat gazing, unseeingly, out of the window. There was a mist before her eyes, and a lump in her throat which prevented her uttering a word. By-and-by Peggy rose to go.

"Mrs. Tiddy said she hoped you would come early this afternoon," she observed. "Please do, for I've so many things to show you."

"Oh no, thank you, I know the way quite well; I have only to keep to the road. Good-bye, Aunt Caroline—till this afternoon."

Miss Leighton stood at the window and watched the little girl out of sight, a gentler expression than usual on her face. Then she resumed her seat and took up the book she had been reading before the child's arrival; but it failed to interest her now, for her mind was full of uneasy thoughts. Barnes had lived with her for nearly twenty years, she reflected; and yet how little she really knew of the woman! Well, it could not be expected that she would interest herself in her maid's concerns. And yet, how surprised Peggy had been at discovering her ignorance of aged mother and her imbecile son. Peggy had learnt all there was to know about them in less than half an hour.

Miss Leighton paid her servants liberal wages—she was never stingy where money was concerned—and it had often occurred to her that Barnes must be of a miserly disposition, for she dressed very plainly and it had been impossible not to notice that she begrudged spending money. Now she understood where the woman's wages had gone. Barnes had not been making a purse for herself, but spending it upon those dear to her, and, all the while, she had been regarding her as a mean, poor-spirited creature.

It was difficult to realise that the humble, silent woman who had borne with her mistress's haughty temper so patiently, had been leading a life of self-sacrifice and self-repression from the noblest of motives; but Miss Leighton now realised that such had been the case, for Peggy had thrown a new light upon the maid's character.

What had made Barnes tell Peggy about her brother? the old lady wondered. Was it because her heart had been hungry for sympathy, and she had known instinctively that she would receive it from the blind child? Probably so. She had preferred to confide in a stranger, rather than in the mistress whom she knew to be accounted a charitable woman—one lavish in giving of her wealth.

"I don't think she can really be charitable, if she isn't kind in little ways," Peggy had said ingenuously, passing her childish judgment on her mother's rich aunt, and the words returned forcibly to Miss Leighton's mind now, and cause her a strange pang, whilst she asked herself if she had ever been really kind to Ellen Barnes, or for that matter, to any member of her household. She was a lonely old woman; but, after all, was it not greatly owing to her own fault? She had certainly never been "kind in little ways."

CHAPTER IX

IT was not the ordinary "afternoon tea" to which Miss Leighton was invited, but a substantial meal laid on the square mahogany table in the parlour at Lower Brimley, with a mass of primroses in the centre intermingled with sprays of beautiful fern moss, surrounded by plates of daintily cut bread-and-butter and various kinds of preserves in glass dishes, an old china bowl full of clotted cream, a plum cake, and some saffron buns—"knobbies" as they are called in Cornwall.

It was but natural that Mrs. Tiddy should put her best possessions before this relation of her little visitor's, so the silver tea-service had come out of its flannel wrappings, and Miss Leighton drank her tea from a rare old china teacup with a wreath of pink roses inside its brim—one of a set which had been treasured in Mr. Tiddy's family for three generations and was only used on great occasions—and stirred her tea with an apostle spoon, worn thin with age; whilst, much to her hostess's gratification, she evidently appreciated the efforts which were being made to entertain her.

Seated at Mrs. Tiddy's right hand at the tea-table, the old lady looked about her with a sense of unusual contentment. For once in a way, she was satisfied with the company in which she found herself. Yes, she liked this hearty, out-spoken west-country farmer and his pleasant, intelligent wife, for she was under the impression—a true one—that they would have welcomed her as cordially if she had been poor instead of rich, and she so seldom felt that about people. After tea, Peggy took possession of her, and, after visiting the yard and inspecting the poultry, she was led into the great farm kitchen, where, in one corner of the oak settle close to the fire was a flannel-lined basket containing two weakly chicks.

"Mrs. Tiddy thought this morning that they would die," Peggy said as she covered the invalids with her warm hands. "But they are getting on nicely now, and to-morrow, they'll be strong enough to run with their brothers and sisters."

Miss Leighton glanced around the kitchen with admiring, appreciative eyes, noticing the shining tins on the mantel-piece, the big copper warming-pan and the tall, brass-faced clock against the wall, and the linen bags hanging from the beams which spanned the ceiling, containing home-cured hams and sides of bacon. And then, after a visit to the dairy, she returned with Peggy to the parlour, where the tea-things had disappeared from the table, and the easiest chair in the room was drawn near the window for the guest.

"What a peaceful scene it is!" Miss Leighton exclaimed, as her eyes rested on the village below and the distant sea. "I suppose, Mrs. Tiddy, you have become greatly attached to this charming spot?"

"Yes," Mrs. Tiddy answered. "I love Lower Brimley as I imagine only a woman who has been homeless and dependent can love her home. There was nowhere in the world where I could feel I had a right to be, till I married, for I was left an orphan at an early age and brought up by relations who regarded me in the light of an incubus. The bread of charity is very bitter, Miss Leighton—how bitter, it is impossible for those who have never tasted it to guess. I finished my education in a school as a pupil teacher, so I can truthfully say, that after I was seventeen, I maintained myself. You know I was a governess for several years, but I prefer being a farmer's wife," she concluded with a happy laugh.

"Your lines have fallen in pleasant places," Miss Leighton remarked, with a smile which was very gracious.

Then Peggy was asked to give them some music, and she went to the piano willingly. Miss Leighton was astonished to hear the child could play so well, and expressed herself delighted, remarking that she had evidently been most carefully taught.

"Soon I am going to learn the organ," Peggy informed the old lady, twisting round on the piano-stool, "and then, perhaps, when I am quite grown up I shall be able to earn my own living. How splendid that will be! I think I would rather be a musician than anything else, because it makes people happy to hear music. Oh! here's Mr. Tiddy!" she cried, catching the sound of footsteps in the hall; and a minute later the farmer entered the room.

"You've been having some music?" he said, glancing at Peggy on the piano-stool. "Well, now, won't you sing something, my dear? She has a voice as sweet as a lark's," he continued, turning to the visitor. "I am sure you would like to hear her sing, wouldn't you?"

"I don't know any songs," Peggy said doubtfully; "only a few hymns, and little scraps from anthems which I've heard at church."

"Sing that hymn about 'Light at evening time,' my dear," requested Mr. Tiddy. "I dearly like to hear you sing that."

Peggy complied immediately, and when her sweet voice ceased there was dead silence for a minute or so. Surprised, the little girl turned her sightless eyes in the direction of Miss Leighton, wondering why she did not at least say, "Thank you."

"Don't you like it?" she asked. "It's my favourite hymn, and when I was a very little girl mother taught me to say the first verse as a prayer. I say it every night now, and I expect I always shall. I suppose I like it so much because I'm blind. I don't know what light is, but I know it's very beautiful and wonderful, because Jesus is called 'The Light of the World,' and people seem to think it's so dreadful to be without it."

"The light our Saviour brought into the world is given to the blind as freely as to others," Mrs. Tiddy reminded her gently. "Its home is in the heart, making peace and happiness and joy." She glanced at Miss Leighton as she spoke and was surprised at the expression of her face. The old lady was regarding the child with yearning eyes, and her whole countenance—generally so repellent in its pride—was softened by an emotion which rendered her incapable of speech.

At that moment Peggy started to her feet, declaring she heard Wolf outside the window—he was in search of her—and hastened out of the room. A few minutes later, she and her faithful canine friend ran down the garden path side by side, the dog barking joyously at having lured her from the house.

"How full of life and high spirits she is!" remarked Mr. Tiddy, as he moved to the window to watch the pair. "She is looking capital, isn't she? I declare her cheeks have become quite round and rosy, and she was such a pale little soul not much more than a month ago."

"It is terrible that she should be blind!" Miss Leighton exclaimed, a sort of restrained vehemence in her tone as she found her voice once more. "Can nothing really be done for her? Has she had good advice?"

"Then money would be no good—" The old lady paused as both her companions shook their heads. "Because if it was a question of money I would gladly pay any amount for the child's sake," she proceeded eagerly. "I—I have taken a great fancy to her. I do not know when I was so much attracted by a child before. I would give a great deal if she could be made to see."

"Hers is not a case money can touch," Mr. Tiddy responded gravely, "I have been assured of that by her parents. As long as her life lasts, the little maid will be blind, and she knows it, but she's contented to wait. Her eyes will see the King in His beauty by-and-by, and meanwhile His love is lightening her darkness and cheering her way. Did you like that hymn she sang?"

"Yes," Miss Leighton assented, "but it made me sad. To me, blindness seems the heaviest affliction that can fall upon any one."

She glanced out of the window, her expression one of mingled affection and pity as her gaze fell upon the little girl who was now leaning over the garden gate in the attitude of listening.

"Ah, here comes Barnes to escort me home!" she exclaimed. "I have to thank you for a very pleasant time," she continued earnestly, looking from one of her companions to the other. "I am afraid I shall have no opportunity of returning your hospitality now, for I am leaving Higher Brimley at the end of the week; but surely, Mr. Tiddy, you sometimes bring your wife to town?"

"She has not been back to London since I married her," Mr. Tiddy replied smilingly, "and she says she has no desire to go. But I mean for us both to take a holiday in the autumn—after the corn harvest—and then—"

"And then you will come to London," Miss Leighton interposed quickly, "and do come and stay with me. Don't say 'No,' but think it over. It would give me so much pleasure to have you for my guests, and you should do as you pleased in every way. At any rate, promise you will not visit London without seeing me."

"I readily promise that," Mrs. Tiddy answered, secretly much surprised at the invitation she and her husband had received. "You are very kind—so many thanks. Won't you stay a little longer? Barnes can wait for you."

"I think I must go, for I would rather return before dark, and the evening is drawing in. There is a mist rising from the sea; I dare say it is 'only for heat and pilchards' as you Cornish folk say, but I am liable to bronchitis and I fear to be out in a fog."

Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy escorted their visitor to the garden gate, where Barnes was waiting for her, in conversation with Peggy; and five minutes later, mistress and maid were climbing the hill towards Higher Brimley.

"I shall leave here at the end of the week," Miss Leighton abruptly remarked as they neared their destination.

"It is my intention to return to town, but I think I shall break our journey at Plymouth," Miss Leighton announced. "I may probably stay there for a day or so."

"Yes, ma'am," Barnes replied again. Not a muscle of her face moved, nor was there any sign to show the delight she experienced as her mistress made known her plans, though her heart was palpitating with joy at the thought that she might soon have an opportunity of seeing her mother and brother.

Miss Leighton was disappointed. She had planned to stop at Plymouth solely on her maid's account; but of course, she reflected, Barnes could not know that.

"By the way, you have relatives living near Plymouth, have you not?" she asked, after a brief hesitation.

"Yes, ma'am—my mother and my brother." Barnes regarded her mistress dubiously, then added: "I shall be glad to see them, if you will allow me a day to myself, for my mother is very old, and my brother is sorely afflicted—he has no mind, or none to speak of. It will be a great pleasure to me to go and see them."

"How is it you never mentioned them to me before?" Miss Leighton demanded sharply. "You are deeply attached to them, are you not?"

"Yes," Barnes admitted, "I am." But she did not explain why their names had never passed her lips, and her mistress did not ask her again.

CHAPTER X

The speaker—Miss Leighton—put the question in a querulous tone. She had that moment entered her bedroom at Higher Brimley, where her maid was engaged in packing her belongings; and, taking off her bonnet and cloak, she flung them upon the bed with an irritability of manner which showed she had been put out.

"Yes, ma'am," Barnes answered, as she proceeded to lock the last trunk and securely fasten its leather straps.

"I have been to Lower Brimley," Miss Leighton announced. "I thought I would call and say good-bye to the Tiddys this evening, but they have gone to Penzance for the day and taken the child with them."

There was a distinct note of disappointment in her voice, and her face wore an expression of mingled annoyance and regret.

"Do they know you are leaving to-morrow, ma'am?" Barnes questioned, respectfully.

"I told Mrs. Tiddy I intended leaving at the end of this week: probably she imagines that would be on Saturday—not Friday. I should like to have said good-bye to little Peggy. Barnes, what I would give if the child's parents would consent to my adopting her!"

"Ma'am!" cried Barnes in great astonishment, rising to her feet—she had been kneeling to secure the straps of the trunk—and staring at her mistress as though she doubted if she had heard aright. "Her mother would never permit it!" she declared decisively.

"How do you know?" queried Miss Leighton, with a frown and a cold glance of displeasure.

"Of course I don't know, ma'am," Barnes answered quietly, "and perhaps I have no right to pass my opinion; but, from what I've heard Miss Peggy say herself, I judge that it's very unlikely her mother and father would part with her, especially as she's blind. Parents generally love an afflicted child so much more dearly than those who are better fitted to face the world!" And Barnes's face softened into tenderness as she spoke.

"But they will have to provide for her future, and my niece's husband is a poor man. If anything happened to him—if he died, his widow and children would be penniless, and what would become of Peggy then—helpless and blind? Surely if her parents are so deeply attached to her, they will consider her interests! I will have nothing to do with Margaret herself, but she shall not be a loser if she will allow me to adopt Peggy. What do you think of my plan, Barnes?"

"I don't like it," Barnes responded in a low tone. "No, I don't like it," she repeated, gaining courage to speak her mind; "the little girl has a happy home, though I suppose it's a poor one, and she's been accustomed to a great deal of love—"

"And if I did not love her, should I desire to adopt her?" Miss Leighton broke in with unusual impetuosity.

"Your love is not like that which she's had all her life," Barnes said, refraining from meeting her mistress's glance. "How can it be, ma'am? You've taken a fancy to the child and you want her for your own sake, because she's sweet and loveable; but her mother and father will think of what's best for her—"

The maid's sentence was never finished—and perhaps it was as well, as Miss Leighton's countenance had darkened with anger—for at that moment Mrs. Ford knocked at the door with the information that there were visitors downstairs. And on descending to her sitting-room, the old lady found Mrs. Tiddy and Peggy awaiting her.

"We are so sorry we were not at home when you called, Miss Leighton," said Mrs. Tiddy, "especially as you are leaving to-morrow—I thought you would not go till Saturday. We have just returned from Penzance, where we have spent the day."

"I hope you have had a pleasant time," Miss Leighton remarked genially. "But are you not very tired?"

"I think Peggy is," Mrs. Tiddy replied, "but when we heard you had been to Lower Brimley in our absence to say good-bye to us, she felt with me that we could not let you go without a word of farewell, so we decided to come straight on here. We must only stay a few minutes, though, as my husband is waiting in the dog-cart outside."

"We have had such a lovely day," Peggy informed Miss Leighton. "We had dinner at an hotel, and we rode to Land's End in a Jersey car; Mr. Tiddy said I must not go home without having been to Land's End."

"At the end of the month," Peggy answered, "when father is coming to fetch me. It has all been arranged. Father is going to take a few days' holiday; and I shall be able to show him the sea, and the village, and the church on the cliff, and all the poultry and the animals on the farm! Oh! I am so much looking forward to that! But I shall be very sorry when the time comes to leave Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy and dear old Wolf! I shall never forget my visit to Cornwall as long as I live! I shall not forget you, either," she went on, taking the old lady's hand between her own and pressing it. "I don't suppose we shall ever meet again, but I shall remember you—always. I wish you were not unfriendly with mother! I am sure she would like to be friendly with you. Don't you think, Aunt Caroline, you might forgive her now?"

"Did any one tell you to say this to me?" questioned Miss Leighton suspiciously, glancing from the child to Mrs. Tiddy, who looked somewhat alarmed.

"Oh, no, no! But it seems so dreadful and—and sad that you and mother should not be friends, for I know you used to be kind to her long ago; and you have been very kind to me—so different from what I thought you were like!"

"It's my great desire to be always kind to you, Peggy," Miss Leighton said gravely and impressively. "I wish you to bear that in mind. But you must not meddle between your mother and me. Little girls should not interfere in matters they do not understand."

Peggy blushed rosy red and her blue eyes filled with tears, but she managed to keep them back. She felt snubbed and uncomfortable, and was very relieved when Mrs. Tiddy declared they must go. Miss Leighton rose to escort her visitors to the garden gate, and, as they were leaving the room, Barnes came downstairs. Peggy recognised the maid's step immediately, and meet her with extended hands.

"Good-bye, Barnes," she said, adding in a whisper, "I sha'n't forget all you told me about your poor brother, and I shall remember always to pray for him as I said I would. If you ever see me in London, you'll be sure to speak to me, will you not?"

"Yes, miss," Barnes responded. She glanced hastily around and saw that her mistress had followed Mrs. Tiddy out of the front door, then she put her arms around Peggy and kissed her. "Good-bye, you dear little soul," she said affectionately. "You're going home soon, are you not, my dear?"

"Ah, you'll be glad to be with your mother and father and brother again, won't you?"

"There's no place like home and the love we get there—remember that, Miss Peggy. It's better to be rich in love than in money, any day!"

"Of course it is," smiled the little girl. "And I shall be very glad to be at home again, though Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy have been as kind as kind could be!"

"They're good, kind people, miss; any one can see that, and you've been happy with them, I know; but—there, I mustn't keep you any longer!" And Barnes kissed Peggy once more and hurried away.

After that, Peggy hastened to join the others at the garden gate. Mrs. Tiddy had already taken her place on the front seat of the dog-cart, and Mr. Tiddy was shaking hands with Miss Leighton and telling her, in his hearty, hospitable way, that she must never pay that district a visit without coming to Lower Brimley. She assured him that she never would.

The little girl assented, approaching Miss Leighton and holding out her hand. She raised her face to the old lady's and received a lingering kiss, which she returned rather shyly. Then, Mr. Tiddy lifted her in his arms and placed her on the back seat of the dog-cart, bidding her keep a firm hold of the rail of the vehicle and not fall out.

"Good-bye, Aunt Caroline!" cried Peggy brightly, waving her hand, as they started off for home.

But Miss Leighton made no response. There was a choking sensation in her throat, and she dared not attempt to speak for fear her voice should betray her emotion. She had a feeling, at that moment, that Peggy was going from her for ever, and that made her very sad.

The spring evening was closing in fast now; and, as the dog-cart disappeared from sight, Miss Leighton turned and slowly retraced her footsteps towards the house, encountering Barnes as she entered the front door. The maid looked at her mistress a trifle curiously, and received a somewhat defiant glance in return.

"Tell Mrs. Ford I shall require my supper immediately, as I shall have to be up early in the morning, and therefore shall go to bed in good time to-night, Barnes," Miss Leighton said, in her usual cold tone.

"Yes, ma'am," Barnes replied. "I am glad, ma'am, that Mrs. Tiddy brought little Miss Peggy to say good-bye to you," she ventured to add.

"I have said good-bye to the child for the present," Miss Leighton responded deliberately; "but she too will soon be returning to town, and I have planned that we shall meet again."

CHAPTER XI

The speaker was Mrs. Pringle, who stood at the sitting-room window of her home, looking out into the narrow street, one cold, wet, spring evening. Her arm was around Billy's shoulders; and the little boy's face, which wore an expression of eager watchfulness, was pressed close to the window-pane.

"Yes," Billy answered, "I hope so. It always seems so long when one is waiting, doesn't it, mother? How it is raining!"

"I wish it had been a finer evening for Peggy's return," Mrs. Pringle remarked. "We must keep the fire up."

"We will give our little Sunbeam a warm welcome, at any rate," she added with a smile.

All day, she had gone about her household duties with the happiest of hearts, and every now and again she had run upstairs to make sure that Peggy's bedroom was quite in order. For her husband, who had gone to Cornwall a few days previously, was expected to bring his little daughter home that night. Needless to say, Billy was no less delighted than his mother at the prospect of so soon seeing Peggy again; whilst Sarah, in the kitchen, had opened the door, that she might hear the expected cab pull up before the house, and kept the kettle on the boil in readiness to make tea the minute the travellers should arrive.

"Here they are!" cried Billy excitedly, at last, and, followed by his mother, he rushed into the passage, almost colliding with Sarah, who was hurrying from the kitchen, and flung wide the front door, admitting as he did so a blast of cold wind.

"Don't go out into the rain, Billy," advised Mrs. Pringle, her face aglow with expectancy. "See, your father is lifting Peggy out of the cab; he will bring her straight in."

The next minute, Peggy was in her mother's arms, rapturously returning her mother's welcoming kiss; then came Billy's turn to be embraced, and after that, Sarah's. The little girl's countenance was one beam of happiness, and her cheeks were so rosy that her brother gazed at her in surprise.

"I'm sure she has," Mrs. Pringle agreed. "She is looking remarkably well. She left home as white as a lily, and she has returned like a red, red rose."

"Are you glad I've come home?" Peggy asked, not because she was in the least doubtful on the point, but because it was so sweet to know she had been missed and how welcome was her presence at home once more.

"Glad?" exclaimed Billy, "I should think we are! We've all of us missed you most dreadfully, Peggy. Even Mr. Maloney noticed that the house seemed quite different without you!"

"Yes; but now our little Sunbeam has returned to us," Mrs. Pringle said lovingly, "and it is such happiness to have her given back to us well and strong!"

"And has no one a welcome for me?" asked Mr. Pringle at that point. He had seen about the luggage and dismissed the cabman, and now stood regarding the excited group with a glance half humorous, half tender. "Have you forgotten that you have not seen me for three whole days? Never mind," he continued, after he had kissed his wife and his little son, "I am content to take the second place to-night. But Peggy and I are both tired and hungry; so, suppose we have our tea at once—as soon as Peggy has removed her wraps."

A very pleasant meal followed; and afterwards the family drew round the fireplace, in a circle, to talk.

"I've so much to tell you, that I don't know where to begin," Peggy remarked. "Oh, I do think the very nicest part of going away on a visit is the coming home again!"

"That's good hearing, my dear. We left Cornwall bathed in glorious sunshine this morning," he continued, addressing his wife. "Your schoolfellow's home is in a most beautiful spot. I cannot express how greatly I have enjoyed my three days' holiday at Lower Brimley. Both Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy have been kindness itself, and never shall we be able to repay them for all they have done for Peggy!"

"I was—oh, so sorry to say good-bye to them," the little girl said soberly, "and there was Wolf—poor Wolf! He had to be shut up in the stable for fear he would follow us to the station and want to go by train. He is such a dear, dear dog! You will love him, Billy, when you see him!"

"Do you think I shall ever see him, Peggy?" Billy asked, anxiously. "Do you really think Mr. Tiddy will remember to invite me to Lower Brimley in the summer holidays?"

"I am sure he will," the little girl replied positively. "I heard him mention it several times; he won't forget, he always keeps his word."

"And what about Aunt Caroline?" Mrs. Pringle at length asked. "I was never more surprised in my life than when I heard you and she had met!"

"Was it not strange?" Peggy said seriously. "You know she came from Penzance on purpose to see Mr. Tiddy's daffodils, and she was so pleased with them."

"Oh, no—not until long after that—when she was lodging at Higher Brimley. I met her on the beach and she spoke to me, and—and I talked rather much, for I told her my name—she asked me, I think—and all about my accident. Even then she didn't say who she was. But afterwards she came to Lower Brimley and asked permission to go around the garden—Mr. Tiddy had told her she might—and Mrs. Tiddy and I went with her, and just before she left she said I was distantly related to her and explained who she was. After that, she was very nice and kind to me—very kind indeed!"

"But you don't like her, Peggy, do you?" cried Billy. "I thought her such a proud, cross old woman!"

"She speaks in rather a proud way sometimes," Peggy allowed reluctantly, "but she isn't cross when you know her—at least, she wasn't to me. She said she wouldn't have driven away so quickly after I had been knocked down by her horse, if she had known I was blind. Yes, I rather like her, but I don't suppose I shall ever meet her again, though I should like to. And then there's Barnes—"

"Yes," nodded Peggy, "and she asked me such a lot of questions about you, mother. I like Barnes. She told me about her poor afflicted brother, and—wasn't it strange?—Aunt Caroline had never heard of him till I happened to speak of him to her."

"I dare say not, my dear," Mrs. Pringle answered, evincing no surprise. "I remember about poor Barnes's brother," she proceeded. "He is not right in his mind, and Barnes helps support him and her mother too. The mother must be a very aged woman now."

"Yes," the little girl answered. "Poor Barnes! Aunt Caroline used to speak so sharply to her sometimes—I heard her—but that is her way, I suppose."

"It used to be," Mrs. Pringle admitted with a sigh, "and, from what you tell me, I imagine she has not altered much these last ten years."

"I don't think she's a bit happy," Peggy said, shaking her golden head. "That seems very sad, doesn't it? Barnes told the servants at Lower Brimley that Aunt Caroline has no friends, because she always thinks people who are nice to her want her money."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. Pringle understandingly, with a quick glance at her husband. "Poor Aunt Caroline!"

She sat in silence after that, listening whilst Peggy expatiated at great length upon all the delights of life at a farm. Billy drank in every word with keen interest, reflecting that some day, not so very distant, he would most likely enjoy his share of the pleasures which his sister explained so marvellously—considering she had been unable to see.

"I know everything was very beautiful," she said, in conclusion, "for there seemed to be flowers everywhere, and the scent of the gorse on the cliffs was wonderful—I never smelt anything so sweet or strong before! And the air was so warm, and the sun shone nearly every day, and—"

"And now you have come back to rain and cold," interposed Mrs. Pringle; "you will feel it a hardship, I fear, after the mild climate you've enjoyed of late and after having spent so much time out-of-doors, to be cooped up in a small house again."

"I don't mind the rain and the cold in the very least," Peggy declared, "and I love our little house. Oh, I'm so glad to be at home! Yes, indeed I am! I've enjoyed my visit to Cornwall; but I think I've missed you all as much or more than you have missed me. I'm glad I went, but I'm gladder still to be back again—to be able to hear your voices and put out my hands and feel you are here! You would understand what that means, if you were blind. Oh, I think I was never so happy in my life before as I am to-night."

"Thank God for that, my darling," Mrs. Pringle responded in a tremulous voice. "Oh, we have much to thank Him for!" she added softly, as she remembered the pale, delicate little girl she had seen off at Paddington railway station with a very heavy heart six weeks previously and mentally compared her with the one—a picture of health and contentment—who now nestled close to her side. She had prayed—oh, so earnestly!—that Peggy might be restored to her well and strong, and her Father in Heaven had answered her prayer.

CHAPTER XII

THE first few days after Peggy's return home were very wet and cold, although it was late spring. But one morning, she arose conscious of a change in the atmosphere and that the sun was shining into her bedroom window, whilst the sparrows were twittering noisily outside as though they had matters of great importance to discuss with each other.

"I think we are going to have a taste of spring weather at last," observed Mr. Pringle at the breakfast table that morning. "There's the promise of a beautiful May day, and I hope," he continued, addressing his wife, "that you will manage to get out for a while in the sunshine—you and Peggy."

"I want to do so," Mrs. Pringle replied. "I have some shopping to do first of all, and afterwards we may, perhaps, extend our walk."

Accordingly Peggy and her mother spent most of the morning out-of-doors. They were both in excellent spirits, and though, of course, they had to take their walk in the streets, they thoroughly enjoyed it. Mrs. Pringle looked into the shops and told her little daughter what the windows contained; and they bought a bunch of wallflowers from a costermonger's barrow, for a penny, which smelt almost as sweet as those at Lower Brimley, Peggy declared, and she wondered if they had come from Cornwall—that corner of the world which, to the blind child, would always be remembered as a paradise of flowers.

Then, on their way home, they encountered Mr. Maloney, whom Peggy had not met since her return. He turned and walked with them as far as their own door, listening with a rather preoccupied air, Mrs. Pringle thought, to the little girl's chatter, and watching her animated countenance with an expression of grave scrutiny in his kindly eyes.

"I want a private conversation with you and your husband, Mrs. Pringle," he remarked. "If I call this evening, shall I find you both disengaged?"

"Yes," she assented, adding anxiously, "there is nothing wrong, is there? You have no bad news to tell us?"

"Oh, no!" he responded, with a reassuring smile. "Please do not imagine that for a moment. I will call this evening, then, about seven."

Peggy wondered what Mr. Maloney could have to say to her parents in private. And Mr. Pringle expressed astonishment when his wife informed him at dinner-time of the reason the Vicar had assigned for his proposed call. Whilst Billy, though he made no remark, was filled with intense curiosity, and by the evening had become quite excited, and found great difficulty in concentrating his mind to prepare his lessons for the following day.

Mr. Pringle had given orders that the Vicar was to be shown into the music-room, as the small apartment was called which was apportioned to the use of the master of the house. And as soon as Mrs. Pringle, who had been sewing in the sitting-room, heard Sarah admit Mr. Maloney punctually at the hour he had appointed, she laid aside her work, and the next moment, the children were alone.

Billy continued to pore over his lesson books, whilst Peggy sat opposite to him at the table, her busy fingers engaged in knitting a sock, one of a pair she was making for her father. Sarah had taught the little girl the accomplishment of knitting during the long evenings of the previous winter, and the pupil did her teacher great credit. There had been silence in the room, except for the click of Peggy's knitting-needles, for some minutes, when the little girl suddenly dropped her work, and springing to her feet, stood listening intently.

"What is it?" asked Billy, glancing at her quickly, and noting that she had grown very pale. "What do you hear?"

"Nothing, now," she answered tremulously. "But I thought—I thought—I suppose it was my fancy!"

"What did you think you heard?" he questioned curiously. "Why, you have turned quite white! What startled you, Peggy?"

"I thought I heard mother crying, but I suppose I was wrong. I don't hear anything now."

Billy went to the door, opened it, and listened; but nothing could be heard except a murmur of voices from the music-room. He shut the door and returned to the table.

More than half an hour passed—an hour—and at last the children heard the music-room door open and footsteps in the passage. Then the front door opened and shut, and a moment afterwards, Mr. and Mrs. Pringle entered the sitting-room without their visitor.

One glance at his mother told Billy that his sister's sharp ears had not deceived her, for there were traces of recent tears on Mrs. Pringle's face. She crossed the room and took a chair by her little daughter's side, and her voice bespoke strong emotion as she said:

"Peggy, dear, we have decided to tell you what brought Mr. Maloney here to-night. Yesterday, he had a visit from Aunt Caroline, who wishes to—to—"

"Oh, I know!" cried Peggy joyfully, as her mother hesitated. "She wishes to be friendly with you, mother! Isn't it that?"

"No, dear," Mrs. Pringle replied sadly. "She has no desire to have anything to do with any of us but you. She would like to adopt you, Peggy—to have you to live with her—"

"That is what she wishes. She offers to bring you up and provide for you, and to make you a rich woman some day. But your father and I have declined her offer, Peggy darling. We will keep our little daughter and trust to Providence to take care of her future."

"You have been crying," said Peggy distressfully, "and I can hear the tears in your voice now. Oh, don't cry, mother! What can Aunt Caroline be thinking of, to imagine you and father would let her adopt me! As though I could leave you all to go and live with her!"

"I knew she was a nasty old woman!" cried Billy, in tones of the greatest indignation. "And now I know she is cruel too! It is cruel of her to wish to take Peggy away from us! And the idea of her going to Mr. Maloney and—"

"Hush, Billy!" admonished Mr. Pringle. "She went to Mr. Maloney because she knew he was our friend," he proceeded. "You must not misjudge her; certainly she did not mean to be cruel. I have no doubt she imagines she is acting kindly; but she does not understand us or realise that Peggy would not be happy separated from the members of her own family. We have talked over Miss Leighton's offer with Mr. Maloney, and we have declined it. I think we are right, and Mr. Maloney thinks so too; but he could not well refuse to put Miss Leighton's offer before us, as she had made a point of his doing so. To-morrow he will give her our reply, and I fear she will be very angry as well as disappointed; but we cannot part with our little Sunbeam," he concluded tenderly.

"Did she want me to live with her altogether?" Peggy asked wonderingly, taking her mother's hand and holding it in a firm clasp.

"Yes, dear. She said you might come home sometimes—that she would not object to your coming to see us now and again, but—oh, Peggy, Peggy!" And poor Mrs. Pringle caught the little girl in her arms and kissed her passionately. "I hope we haven't been selfish," she continued, "but God gave you to us, and I cannot think it would be right to give you up for the sake of worldly advantages. No, I cannot think that! You have always had a happy home, have you not, Peggy?"

"Oh, so happy!" the little girl answered earnestly. "Why do you cry, mother—when I am not going to leave you?"

"I am very foolish, I dare say," said Mrs. Pringle. "But it hurts me to think Aunt Caroline could imagine I would give up my own child."

"Poor woman, she over-estimates the worth of her money," Mr. Pringle remarked, with a pitying note in his voice. "She does not understand that there are things even in this world not to be purchased with gold."

"Why should she want to adopt me?" questioned Peggy wonderingly, turning her flushed face towards her father. "It is not even as though I wasn't blind! Why doesn't she adopt some little girl who has no mother or father or brother to love her? Why should she want me?"

"Because, somehow, you have touched a soft spot in her heart, little Sunbeam," Mr. Pringle answered. "I can think of no other reason. Poor Miss Leighton! I am afraid she will be very disappointed when she hears we cannot favour her plan."

"Poor Aunt Caroline!" sighed Peggy. "Why can't she be friendly with us all, and come and see us and be nice like she was when she came to tea at Lower Brimley?" And she shook her head sorrowfully as she thought of the old lady, so rich in money, so poor in other ways.

Billy, looking at his sister, wondered at the regretful expression of her face. He could not tell, and he certainly would have been amazed, had he known that her tender heart was ready to pour a portion of the wealth of its affection upon her whom he regarded, not unnaturally, as one of the proudest and most disagreeable of people, and he felt triumphant as he reflected that Miss Leighton would be disappointed at finding herself balked in her selfish plan.

When, on the following day, Miss Leighton heard from Mr. Maloney that Mr. and Mrs. Pringle had considered her offer and courteously declined it, she made no comment on their decision whatever. But she was even more disappointed than Billy had anticipated she would be, and there was more of sorrow than of anger in her heart. Briefly she informed Barnes that Peggy's parents had refused to allow her to adopt the child.

"You were right, Barnes," she admitted with a sigh. "You thought my niece would refuse my offer, did you not?"

"Yes, ma'am," Barnes answered briefly. She said no more, for in her heart she was confident that Peggy would be better and happier at home.

CHAPTER XIII

FOR many months, the Pringle family heard no more of Miss Leighton. Spring gave place to summer; and in the early autumn Billy paid his visit to Cornwall, returning, after a never-to-be forgotten six weeks' holiday, with Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy, who spent a short while in London, during which time they went to see Miss Leighton, mindful of the promise which they had made to her.

But, although the old lady received her Cornish acquaintances with every sign of cordiality and pleasure, she never once mentioned Peggy, and when Mrs. Tiddy spoke of her, she quickly changed the conversation, so that her visitors came to the conclusion that her liking for the little blind girl had been merely a passing fancy, and that she had lost the interest she had certainly once entertained for the child. Such, however, was not the case.

It was the end of September when the Tiddys returned to their Cornish home; and shortly afterwards Miss Leighton had a long and serious illness, the result of a neglected cold. When she had recovered and was able to dispense with the services of the trained nurse, who, with Barnes, had nursed her back to health, it was December, and every one was preparing for Christmas.

The season of peace and goodwill never brought much happiness to Miss Leighton nowadays; but it made many calls upon her purse. And when she had written several cheques to be sent to the various charities to which she was a regular contributor, she generally considered she had done all that could be reasonably expected of her for her fellow creatures.

But this year, as she sat by the fire in the drawing-room of her London house, one afternoon about a week before Christmas, a sense of unusual dissatisfaction with herself began to creep over her. Memory was busy with her; and, gazing into the fire, she pictured a little figure clad in a shabby blue serge coat and skirt and a Tam o' Shanter cap, and saw once more a fair face with a halo of golden curls around it—a happy face, beautiful with that inward peace and light which only God can give. Then, in her imagination, she heard a clear, child's voice say:

"But I don't think she can be really charitable, if she isn't kind in little ways and if she's unforgiving!"

Miss Leighton winced as she recalled the words and the decided tone in which they had been uttered. How the child's judgment of her had rankled in her heart! It had hurt her at the time it had been given, though she had never resented it: it hurt her a great deal more now.

"I would have been kind to Peggy, if her parents would have let me," she thought. "There is nothing I would have denied her. I should like to do something to please her—to add to her happiness this Christmas. How I should like to see her again! She was such a bright, contented little girl! When I was ill, she was continually in my thoughts, and one night, I fancied I heard her singing that hymn about light at evening time—she has a very sweet voice. I wonder if Margaret would let the child come and see me? I hardly like to ask her a favour, but I long to see Peggy once more. Ah, here's Barnes!"

The maid had been to match some silks for a piece of fancy-work her mistress was making; but Miss Leighton was not in the mood to look at her purchases now.

"Yes, ma'am," Barnes replied, taking a chair and glancing at her mistress inquiringly. There was a better understanding between these two than there had been formerly, for each had discovered of late, that the other had a heart; and Barnes had nursed Miss Leighton devotedly during her long illness, a fact Miss Leighton was not likely to forget.

Barnes assented, a pleased flush rising to her pale cheeks at the unusual kindness of her mistress's tone. She was emboldened to give Miss Leighton a list of the articles she had bought to send home to her people.

"I pack up a hamper for them every Christmas," she explained in conclusion, "and my poor brother is always so excited to see it unpacked."

"But would it not be much less trouble to you to send your mother the money you spend and let her buy what she wants herself?" Miss Leighton inquired.

"Perhaps so, ma'am; but that would not be half so much pleasure to mother or to me. I like thinking and planning how I shall fill the hamper with those things which I know will be most acceptable, and when mother receives it and takes out its contents, she knows I've borne her wants in mind. I've knitted her a nice warm shawl, and she'll be much prouder of it, because I've made it, than if I'd bought it ready made."

"I see, Barnes. I wonder what sort of Christmas my little grand-niece will spend."

Barnes started, and a somewhat guilty expression crossed her countenance as she answered hurriedly:

"A very happy one, I expect. Children mostly love Christmas time, and she has a very happy home."

"I— I've been there, ma'am. I went to St. John's one Sunday afternoon to hear Mr. Maloney preach at a children's service, and I saw Miss Peggy there with her mother and brother. After the service, outside the church, I spoke to them, and Mrs. Pringle asked me to their house to have a cup of tea—and I went."

"Well?" said Miss Leighton, with repressed eagerness in her voice. "What is the place like?"

"The house, ma'am? It's one of a terrace, very small but comfortable and homely. Perhaps I ought to have told you that I'd been there, but I did not like to mention it."

"No, ma'am, very little. She inquired for you and looked so sorry when she heard how ill you'd been, and Miss Peggy said—" Barnes paused abruptly in some confusion.

"She said, 'Poor Aunt Caroline! How dreadful it would have been if she had died and we had never known! How I wish she would be friends with us all! She used to be so nice in Cornwall.' That's what she said, ma'am, shaking her curly head—you remember how she used to do that? It's natural she shouldn't understand how you feel towards her mother."

Miss Leighton sighed. During her late illness she had been brought face to face with death; and, for the first time, doubts of herself had assailed her, and she had seen her unforgiving spirit in its true light. Pride had always been her stumbling-block through life; and it had been her pride which had suffered when her niece, to whom in her way she had really been attached, had elected to marry the hardworking music-master who was now the organist of St. John's.

Her only reason for objecting to Mr. Pringle as her niece's husband had been because he had been poor. She had always thought so much of riches, but they had never brought her happiness; as a matter of fact, they had stood between her and her fellow creatures, they had warped her sympathies; and sadly and regretfully, the woman of great wealth admitted to herself that though she had given her money to clothe the naked and feed the poor, it had profited her nothing, for the spirit of charity had never been hers.

"I am an old woman, and no one cares for me," she thought. "The love I might have had, I deliberately put away. I should not be lonely to-day, if I had not cast Margaret aside when she married. How she wept when I said I would never willingly look on her face again, and I thought it was my money she was regretting, not me!"

Then, as Barnes assented, she continued: "I have heard high praises of his preaching, and I should like to hear one of his sermons. If I go to St. John's next Sunday afternoon, will you accompany me?"

"Certainly, ma'am," Barnes responded promptly, her face showing the intense amazement she felt. She regarded her mistress with anxious scrutiny, marvelling at the softened expression on her countenance. She hoped she was not going to be ill again.

"Perhaps we shall see Miss Peggy there," she proceeded; "but, if so, I expect her mother will be with her. I suppose you will not speak to them, ma'am?"

"I cannot tell," Miss Leighton answered musingly. "I—I shall be guided by circumstances."

"Oh, ma'am!" cried Barnes eagerly. "Don't be angry with me for saying this; but, if you could bring yourself to forgive Mrs. Pringle—"

"That will do," broke in Miss Leighton with a return of her usual imperious manner. "I can imagine what you were about to say. No, I'm not angry. You're a well-meaning soul, Barnes, but—you may go!"

Barnes needed no second bidding. She slipped quietly out of the room, fearing she had done more harm than good; whilst Miss Leighton leaned back in her easy chair, a prey to anxious thoughts. She had said she would go to St. John's on the following Sunday, and she meant to keep her word, for she really was curious to hear Mr. Maloney preach, and she hoped she might at any rate catch a glimpse of Peggy, though she determined, now, that she would not speak to her. How could she ignore the mother and notice the child?

CHAPTER XIV

IT was Sunday afternoon. The children's service at St. John's was nearly at an end; and now the Vicar had ascended into the pulpit to address a few simple words to his congregation before giving out the number of the concluding hymn. He took for his text the Saviour's promise, "He that followeth Me shall not walk in darkness," and, in the first place, reminded his hearers that in a very few days, they would be commemorating the birth of Him Who is called "The Light of the World." Would they not try to follow Him? he asked.

Then he pictured the childhood of Jesus, and many a pair of bright young eyes grew earnest and thoughtful as their owners' interest was chained by the story which the Vicar knew so well how to tell, pointing out to the children that the Christ-Child should be their pattern, that, like Him, they should be good, and kind, and obedient. And that, if they trusted in Him, He would be their Saviour and their Friend.

Finally, he explained that darkness meant selfishness and sin, and that the child who was untruthful, or dishonest, or unkind, was walking in darkness, apart from God. And that to follow Jesus, they must learn to be gentle, and pitiful, and loving, and faithful in word and deed: then would Christ's promise be for them—"He that followeth Me shall not walk in darkness!"

It was a very short sermon, but so simple that no child could fail to understand it; and when it was over, and the Vicar descended from the pulpit, Peggy Pringle, who, seated by her brother's side, had listened to every word Mr. Maloney had said with the closest attention, turned her face to Billy with a pleased smile curving her lips, and thus allowed an old lady close behind her, a sight of her profile.

The old lady, who was no other than Miss Leighton, felt her heart begin to beat unevenly as she recognised Peggy. She had been on the lookout for her all through the service; but the church was so full of children that she had not picked out her little great-niece amongst so many, and lo! All the while she had been within reach of her hand.

In another minute the congregation had arisen, and with a dream-like sensation, Miss Leighton once more listened to the same hymn Peggy had sung to her in Cornwall months before:

"Holy Father, cheer our way
With Thy love's perpetual ray:
Grant us every closing day
Light at evening time."

Tears dimmed the old lady's eyes, and a softening influence stole into her proud heart; and when, at the conclusion of the hymn, the congregation knelt in prayer, Miss Leighton covered her face with her hands and prayed fervently that she, who had walked in darkness so long, might be guided into the way of light.

"Barnes, I must speak to Peggy," she said in an agitated voice, as she and her maid left the church and stood under the lamp outside. "Do not let her pass us by."

"She is with her brother, ma'am," Barnes answered. "I do not think Mrs. Pringle is here."

At that instant Peggy and Billy appeared, hand in hand, and Miss Leighton stepped quickly forward; but, immediately, Billy put himself between her and his sister.

"Go away!" he cried indignantly, for he had recognised Miss Leighton, and the wild idea that she might wish to lure Peggy away from him, then and there had flashed through his mind. "I'm not going to let you touch her!"

"What do you mean?" demanded Miss Leighton in surprise. "Peggy! It's I—Aunt Caroline! Won't you speak to me, child?"

At the sound of the well-remembered voice the little girl flushed rosily, a look of astonishment and—Miss Leighton saw she was not mistaken—of joy lighting up her face; seeing which, Billy allowed her to receive the old lady's warm embrace, though he still retained a firm grasp of her hand.

"How are you, Peggy?" Miss Leighton began. "You look very well," she continued, without waiting for a reply. "We—Barnes and I—came to hear your friend Mr. Maloney preach, and I thought I should like a word with you. We sat close behind you in church."

"Did you?" said Peggy, smiling. "Wasn't it a nice sermon? And we had my favourite hymn! Oh, Aunt Caroline," she proceeded sympathetically, "we were so sorry to hear you had been ill. Are you really quite well now? Yes. Oh, I'm so glad! Oh, Barnes, how do you do? Aunt Caroline, this is Billy. Billy, you remember Aunt Caroline, don't you? You know you saw her once before and you said you would know her again."

Billy had no alternative but to shake hands with Miss Leighton. And, now he came to regard her more closely, she did not look the sort of person who would steal his sister from him. He thought he read goodwill towards himself in her face, as he scrutinised it in the light of the lamp near which they were standing, and she showed no resentment for the decidedly rude way in which he had treated her, the real fact being that she had guessed the impulse which had prompted his strange behaviour. For some minutes, he watched her talking to Peggy whilst Barnes stood aside patiently waiting. Then, he reminded his sister that if they did not go home, their mother would wonder what had become of them.

"Yes," agreed Peggy, "we mustn't wait any longer. Mother's at home alone—it's Sarah's afternoon out—and she's always anxious if we're later than she expects us."

"One moment more," said Miss Leighton. "I must wish you a very happy Christmas before we part, and I want you to tell me what I can give you for a present. Choose whatever you like. And Billy—he must choose something too!"

"Oh, how kind of you!" cried Peggy. Whilst Billy's eyes glistened with delight, and a look of approval settled on his face—approval of this great-aunt of his, against whom he had entertained such a strong prejudice before.

"I want to do something to add to your happiness," Miss Leighton said, in a voice which trembled with an emotion which she tried in vain to repress.

"Do you, Aunt Caroline?" the little girl questioned earnestly. "Do you, indeed?"

"Then if you really and truly want to add to my happiness," Peggy broke in excitedly, "you'll come home with us now—we've not far to go—and be friends with mother again! Oh, do come! It grieves mother dreadfully to think you're angry with her! But, you're not angry any longer, are you?"

Miss Leighton could not say she was, for her bitterness against Peggy's mother had been slowly fading away since she had known Peggy herself. Her head was in a whirl with conflicting thoughts. But she felt she must accept or decline her little niece's invitation at once—she could not discuss it there in the street.

"My dear, I cannot—" she was beginning, when a rush of tenderer, better feelings than she had experienced for years filled her heart and caused her to hesitate. She looked at Peggy's expectant face with its sightless blue eyes, and the last remnant of her pride died away, though she repeated, "I cannot, I cannot!"

But the sharp ears of the blind child had caught the note of indecision in the other's tone, and taking the old lady by the hand she said persuasively:

"Come, Aunt Caroline, we will go on, and Barnes and Billy will follow. I know the way quite well. Oh, do come!"

And, much to Barnes's astonishment, and Billy's intense excitement, Miss Leighton answered in a voice which no longer wavered, but had become decided and firm:

"Here's wonderful news from the Pringles!" exclaimed Mrs. Tiddy on Christmas morning, as she stood in the hall at Lower Brimley, ready to start for church with her husband, and glanced hastily through the letter she held in her hand—one of several which the postman had just delivered. "I cannot stay to read all Margaret says now, but I see she has had a visit from her aunt, and there must have been a complete reconciliation, for—fancy, Ebenezer!—the old lady is going to dine with them to-day!"

"I'm heartily glad to hear it," Mr. Tiddy responded. "Depend upon it, Peggy has brought that about—the reconciliation, I mean. But come, my dear, or we shall be late for church."

"I always felt there was One above Who arranged that Miss Leighton and Peggy should meet here and get to know each other. I expect the old lady will have a happier Christmas to-day than she has had for many a long year."

And Mr. Tiddy was right, for this year, Miss Leighton found fresh beauty in the angels' message of peace and goodwill, and her Christmas Day was a very happy one, spent in her niece's home. God had softened her proud heart by the unconscious influence of the blind child, and He was granting her light in the evening time of her life. Miss Leighton had never felt so rich before as she did on this Christmas Day.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Little Sunbeam

LITTLE SUNBEAM

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

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