Cousin Becky's champions
Date: 2023-09-04T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; England -- Juvenile fiction; Families -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Cousin Becky's champions

Author: Eleanora H. Stooke

Illustrator: Isabel Watkin

Release date: September 4, 2023 [eBook #71566]

Language: English

Original publication: London: National Society's Depository, 1909

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/71566

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUSIN BECKY'S CHAMPIONS ***

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

A PERILOUS SITUATION.

COUSIN BECKY'S CHAMPIONS

BY

ELEANORA H. STOOKE

AUTHOR OF "ROBIN OF SUN COURT," "GRANFER AND ONE CHRISTMAS TIME," ETC.

WITH TWO FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

BY ISABEL WATKIN

LONDON

NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY

19, GREAT PETER STREET, WESTMINSTER, S.W.

NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 & 3, BIBLE HOUSE

1909

[All rights reserved]

CONTENTS

Chapter

I. THE HOME IN PRINCESS STREET

II. WHY AUNT JANIE CALLED

III. AT THE ROOKERY

IV. COUSIN BECKY'S ARRIVAL AT BEAWORTHY

V. AFTER THE SNOWSTORM

VI. "SHOWING OFF"

VII. SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT THE ROOKERY

VIII. COUSIN BECKY FINDS A HOME

IX. A MORNING WALK

X. BROUGHT TO BOOK

XI. IN THE CLOCK CASE

XII. COUSIN BECKY TELLS A SECRET

XIII. THE CALAIS NOBLE

XIV. MR. MARSH DISCOVERS HIS LOSS

XV. EDGAR LEARNS HIS FATHER'S SUSPICION

XVI. UNDER A CLOUD

XVII. IN VIEW OF A HOLIDAY

XVIII. THE REAPPEARANCE OF THE CALAIS NOBLE

XIX. AN ACCIDENT TO EDGAR

XX. COUSIN BECKY TAKEN INTO CONFIDENCE

XXI. AT THE MILL HOUSE

XXII. AN UNFORESEEN EXPERIENCE

XXIII. RESCUED

XXIV. CONCLUSION

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

A PERILOUS SITUATION

COUSIN BECKY AND POLLY

COUSIN BECKY'S CHAMPIONS

CHAPTER I

THE HOME IN PRINCESS STREET

"TAKE that—and that—and that, and now go home and tell Aunt Janie I've smacked her dearie! I don't care if she calls and complains of me to mother—it would be like her to do that!" And the angry speaker—Roger Trent, a boy of about nine years of age—turned on his heel, and with head held high and flashing eyes, walked off, his heart beating fast with indignation as his mind dwelt wrathfully on the incident which had caused him to so far lose his temper as to cuff his companion in the open street.

A few minutes previously he had been walking amicably by the side of his cousin, Edgar Marsh, on their way home from school, when the latter had caught up a stone, which he had shied at a terrier with such true aim that it had hit the poor animal in the leg and sent it howling pitifully down the street; whereupon Roger had turned upon his cousin and dealt him several swift blows, for he hated anything like cruelty, and he possessed a fiery temper which often got him into trouble.

"I suppose there'll be no end of a row now," he reflected somewhat ruefully; "but Edgar's as old as I am and quite as big, so it wasn't cowardly to hit him, and he deserved what he got. I wish, though, I'd remembered what mother said, that she hoped I would try to keep the peace with Edgar. But I'm sure if she'd heard that poor little dog howling with pain, she'd have been angry herself; and Edgar could have hit me back if he'd liked—there is no fight in him! I wish he wasn't my cousin; and, oh, how I wish my father wasn't working for his father, then—"

He paused in his reflections, for he had turned down a side street, called Princess Street, and had reached home—a house in the midst of a long row of others, all exactly alike—and there at the sitting-room window were his mother and his sister Polly, watching for him. The angry cloud lifted from his countenance at the sight of the pair, and he smiled and nodded; but his mother had been quick to notice that something had gone wrong, and her first words, when her son entered the sitting-room, were:

"What is amiss, Roger? Have you been in mischief?"

"Why, mother, how sharp you are!" he exclaimed. Then he told her what had occurred, whilst she listened attentively, her face, which was pale and careworn, taking a decidedly anxious expression.

"Oh, Roger, you should not have struck your cousin!" she cried reprovingly when he had concluded his tale. "You really must try to keep your temper under better control, my dear boy."

"But, mother, it was cruel and wicked of Edgar to hit the poor dog," interposed Polly eagerly. "He had no right to throw a stone at it."

"Certainly not. Nevertheless, Roger had no right to hit Edgar. Two wrongs do not make one right."

Polly looked unconvinced. She was a pretty little girl, a year her brother's senior, with fair hair and honest grey eyes.

"I expect Aunt Janie will make a fuss," she observed, "for Edgar's sure to tell her—he's such a little tell-tale—and she always takes his part. That's so unfair. Oh, mother, I can't like Aunt Janie, I can't! I suppose she's kind—oh yes, I know she is, but sometimes I wish she wasn't, and then I shouldn't feel so bad about not liking her more."

And Polly looked down over herself and reflected that she really must be very ungrateful, seeing that she was clothed, at the present moment, in a frock which her mother had made for her from one of her aunt's cast-off gowns. "She isn't a bit like father," she proceeded; "no one would think they were brother and sister, like Roger and me. Oh, mother, if I was a rich lady and Roger had lost all his money and become quite poor, I know what I'd do!"

"Well?" said Mrs. Trent, inquiringly, amused at the little girl's earnestness. "What would you do, then?"

"I'd share my money with him," was the decisive reply.

"Of course you would, Polly," said Roger heartily. "And if I was rich and you were poor I'd go shares with you."

"You see, your aunt cannot do that, because her money is, a great part of it, her husband's," Mrs. Trent reminded them, "and your father would not like to take money from him—except what he earns."

"Did Uncle John ever want to give father some money?" Polly questioned inquisitively.

"N-o-o," her mother was obliged to admit. "But you must remember that your uncle has been very kind to us. When your father lost his money, it was your uncle who came forward and offered him employment in his office; but for that we should have come to want; and you know we often get fruit and vegetables from the Rookery gardens; and you and I, Polly, would have been very shabby before now but for your aunt's gifts of clothes. Don't let us be ungrateful, my dears!"

There was a brief silence. Mrs. Trent had spoken earnestly; and now she bent her head over the stocking she was in the midst of darning to hide the tears which glistened in her eyes. She was a very pretty woman; but though she was only a little over thirty years of age, her brown hair was streaked with white, and she had the appearance of one weighed down with many cares. When she had married, her husband had been a man in a good position as a clay merchant in the flourishing town of Beaworthy. The young couple had lived in a nice house in the suburbs, where the two children had been born; but, owing to heavy trade losses, and the failure of a bank in which Mr. Trent had had a considerable interest, the once prosperous man had been brought to the verge of ruin, and having failed in his business, he had been glad to accept a post as clerk in the office of Mr. Marsh, who had married his sister. Mr. Marsh was a clay merchant, too, but, unlike his brother-in-law, he was a successful trader, and it seemed as though everything he had touched had turned to gold.

Three years had now elapsed since the Trents had removed from their old home to their present abode in Princess Street, where they kept one servant instead of three, and dropped out of touch with many of their former acquaintances, as people do who have known better days. Sometimes Mrs. Marsh called upon her sister-in-law, and the inhabitants of Princess Street would flock to their windows to gaze at the carriage, with its pair of roan horses, drawn up before the Trents' door, and watch brown paper parcels and baskets carried into the house, and poor Mrs. Trent would blame herself for minding that everyone was aware she was indebted to her husband's sister for the clothes she wore and was really thankful to accept, and the surplus fruit and vegetables from her brother-in-law's gardens.

"If only Janie would walk when she comes to call, I should be so much better pleased," she had said to Mr. Trent on one occasion. "Her carriage is out of place in Princess Street." And then she had been sorry she had made the remark, because her husband had looked pained.

Mr. and Mrs. Marsh had only one child, the boy whom Roger had so promptly punished for his cruelty that afternoon. He was spoilt by his parents; and his cousins, up to the present, had seen very little of him, for their invitations to the Rookery had been few and far between, and he had rarely visited them at Princess Street. But during the last few weeks Edgar and Roger had clashed at the Grammar School, which they had attended since Christmas, and they had already had several disagreements, for the former had been brought up to be domineering, and the latter could not brook being dictated to by a boy of his own age.

"I am sorry I hit Edgar," Roger admitted by-and-by, when his temper had had time to cool, "especially before so many people. I'll apologise to him to-morrow, that is, if he doesn't tell Aunt Janie; but I expect he will. He's a rare sneak. Are we going to have tea before father comes home, or shall we wait for him, mother?"

"We will wait for him, my dear. He said he hoped to be back by half-past five."

"Oh, that's jolly!" Roger exclaimed, his countenance brightening. "We must keep up the fire, for it's awfully cold!" And he took up the coal shovel.

"I hope it will soon get warmer," Mrs. Trent remarked, "but I suppose we cannot expect it to do so in February. 'When the days begin to lengthen, the cold begins to strengthen,'" she quoted with rather a rueful smile.

"The coal heap's getting very low," announced Polly, as she watched her brother putting coals on the fire, "I peeped in to-day. I suppose they don't mind how much coal they use at the Rookery. Mother, it doesn't seem fair that Uncle John and Aunt Janie should be so rich when we are so poor. I don't believe they're any better than we are."

"Oh, hush, Polly!" cried Mrs. Trent. "You mustn't speak like that. Think of all our blessings. Sometimes I feel a very rich woman indeed."

"Why, mother!" exclaimed Roger in amazement.

"Rich because I have a good husband and children who give me a wealth of love," Mrs. Trent went on to explain with a smile which made her face look very pretty and young. "I wouldn't change places with any woman I know."

The boy threw his arms around her neck and kissed her with tender affection, for he was deeply attached to his mother, whilst Polly remarked:

"I'm glad you're like yourself, mother; I wouldn't have you like Aunt Janie for the world. Good gracious, here she is!" she exclaimed excitedly, rushing to the window as a carriage stopped at the door. "Yes, she's getting out; and oh, Roger, she does look so cross!"

"She's coming to complain about me, for certain," said Roger with a sigh of resignation, though he looked somewhat alarmed. He felt glad that he had confessed all that had occurred to his mother, and wondered what punishment his aunt would demand to have meted out to him for his treatment of her son.

"Well, of all the mean, spiteful boys I ever heard of, Edgar is the worst," declared Polly in an indignant whisper to her brother, as with a rustling of silken skirts Mrs. Marsh swept into the room. "I hope, Roger, that you hit him hard—he deserved it, I'm sure."

CHAPTER II

WHY AUNT JANIE CALLED

Mrs. Marsh was a tall, handsome woman, several years the senior of her sister-in-law, whom she greeted in a manner which, though intended to be kindly, was more than a little patronising. She kissed her niece and nephew, and then seated herself in an easy chair near the fire, whilst the children withdrew to the window to watch for their father's arrival.

"I don't believe she has come to complain of you, Roger," whispered Polly, "for she called you 'my dear.'"

Roger nodded, intensely relieved in mind. He was looking at his aunt's carriage a trifle enviously, and thinking he would like the situation of coachman so as to drive the beautiful horses he so greatly admired. But when he said so to Polly, she appeared indignant at the idea, and bade him be quiet and listen to what Aunt Janie had to say.

"No, thank you, Mary," Mrs. Marsh replied, in response to her sister-in-law's offer of a cup of tea. "I merely called to see Martin—" Martin was Mr. Trent—"to tell him about a letter I've received from Cousin Becky. You've heard of her, of course—Rebecca Trent, a first cousin of father's?"

"Oh yes!" answered Mrs. Trent, with a show of keen interest. "Martin was telling the children about her the other day, and wondering what had become of her. He will be so glad to hear you have heard from her. She must be an old woman now?"

"Close on seventy. She used to visit at our house when Martin and I were about the age of Polly and Roger; but she always made her home with her brother, who had been left a widower with a young family. In fact, she brought up his children. In the letter I have to-day had from her, she informs me that her brother is dead, and that now she is all alone."

"How sad!" exclaimed Mrs. Trent with ready sympathy, whilst Polly and Roger exchanged concerned glances. "Poor soul! But I suppose she has means to provide herself with another home?"

"I should say that is very doubtful. Cousin Becky never had any property, as far as I know, and it is certain her brother could do nothing towards making a provision for her in case she survived him, for he lived on his pension—he was a retired naval officer, as doubtless Martin has told you—and had very little private property. Becky ought to have gone into a situation when she was young, instead of living with her brother, then perhaps she would have been able to make some provision for her old age—I've written and told her so."

Mrs. Marsh paused, for at that moment the sitting-room door opened to admit her brother. Mr. Trent was tall, and very like his sister in features, but there the resemblance between the two ended, for the expression of his countenance was good-humoured, and his many troubles had failed to embitter him, for he owned a hopeful disposition and one of the kindest hearts in the world, whereas Mrs. Marsh, in spite of her air of prosperity, looked anything but a contented woman.

"Oh, father, Aunt Janie has had a letter from Cousin Becky!" cried Polly, eager to be first with the news.

"Well, I am glad," Mr. Trent declared heartily, as selected a chair by his sister's side and, sitting down, took the letter which she had drawn from her pocket and now offered to him. "You and I were very fond of her when we were youngsters, Janie, and she was very good to us, I remember. What has the dear old body to say for herself?"

"You had better see!" Mrs. Marsh responded dryly.

Thus advised, Mr. Trent opened the letter and read aloud as follows:—

"My DEAR JANIE,—"

"It is many years since you and I met, but there is still a warm corner in my heart for the little girl and boy who were such firm friends of mine in those days when I used to visit at their home; and I hope they may have some kindly remembrances of 'Cousin Becky'—which hope impels me to write to you now. Dear Janie, I am left all alone. A few months since my dear brother died after a long illness; and his three children are all married and far away. The boy is settled in New Zealand, and the two girls are in India—one is married to an officer in the Army, the other to an engineer. My nephew has offered me a home, but I am too old to be transplanted to the other side of the world, so I have declined his offer, and now propose to visit Beaworthy with the idea of settling there. I have pleasant recollections of the place, and as you and Martin are my only relations in England, I feel I should like to pass my remaining days near you. Could you recommend me to lodgings, or to any nice family who would take a boarder? I have no doubt you can assist me in this matter, and I shall eagerly await your reply."

"With my love to Martin and yourself, and hoping soon to see you both and to make the acquaintance of your husband and boy,"

"I am, my dear Janie,"
"Your affectionate cousin,"
"Rebecca Trent."

"I suppose you've written and asked her to visit you, Janie," remarked Mr. Trent as he returned the letter to his sister.

"I have done no such thing, Martin. Of course, I see that is what she expected—I can read between the lines, so to speak—but I talked the matter over with John, and we came to the conclusion that it would be wiser not to do so; if we once gave her a footing at the Rookery we might find a difficulty in getting rid of her, and—and—"

Mrs. Marsh paused and coloured as she met her brother's astonished eyes. There was a long, awkward silence, which Mrs. Trent at length broke by remarking gently:

"It is very sad to be old and poor, and especially for one who has led a noble and self-sacrificing life—"

"She ought to have considered herself," Mrs. Marsh broke in tartly, "and so I've reminded her. I've written and advised her to stay where she is, in London; I suppose she must have some friends there. I think she would be foolish to come to Beaworthy, anyway. Well, I really must go; I only came to show you Cousin Becky's letter, Martin. Good-bye, children. Good-bye, Mary. You're looking very pale, you ought to get out more." And Mrs. Marsh rustled out of the room followed by her brother.

The mother and children stood at the window and watched Mr. Trent assist his sister into the carriage and wrap the fur rug around her.

"Why doesn't she take you for a drive with her, sometimes, mother?" said Polly in a tone of dissatisfaction. She regarded her mother attentively as she spoke, and a pang of pain shot through her loving heart as she saw that Mrs. Trent was indeed very pale. "It's all very well to say you ought to get out more, but—oh, I wish we had a carriage for you to drive out in when the roads and streets are muddy, and—"

"Don't let your father hear you say anything like that," Mrs. Trent interposed hurriedly. "You need not trouble because I am pale—I always am, you know. There! Your aunt's gone; and now run and tell Louisa to bring in tea."

Polly obeyed, and by the time Louisa—the maid-of-all-work—had done her bidding, Mr. Trent had changed his coat for the older one he always wore at home in the evenings, and had returned to the sitting-room. During the meal which followed, Roger told his father how he had feared his aunt had come on another errand; and though Mr. Trent chided his son for having lost his temper and struck his cousin, he sympathised with the indignation which had caused him to act so impetuously.

"I should be sorry for you to be really at enmity with Edgar," he said gravely, "so I hope you will try to make peace with him to-morrow. His cruelty was probably the result of thoughtlessness, but it ought to be checked."

"Aunt Janie never thinks he does wrong," declared Polly. "And, oh, father, don't you consider it's very strange she doesn't want Cousin Becky to visit her?" she added eagerly.

"Yes, Polly, I do," Mr. Trent admitted with a glance at his wife. "I only wish we were better off so that we could ask Cousin Becky here, but I suppose it's not to be thought of under present circumstances."

"Why not, father?" asked Roger. "Do you think she would not like to come—that she would not like our house?"

"No. I am sure she would not mind our house being small and shabby, and in a street, for she has had to rough it in her day; but—" Mr. Trent paused and glanced at his wife again.

"We have no spare room," she remarked dubiously, "only that little attic next to Louisa's; we could not put a visitor there."

"Cousin Becky could have my room—it's rather small, of course, but it's very comfortable and sunny—and I'd go up in the attic," said Polly, whilst her father nodded approval.

"But, Martin, do you think she would be satisfied with our mode of living?" questioned Mrs. Trent. "I should like to write and ask her to come and stay with us until she has made her plans for the future, because she was kind to you years ago, but—"

"And now she is old and poor, Mary, I should like to be kind to her," broke in Mr. Trent, "especially as Janie—but never mind that! Janie doesn't realise what it is to be without money and friends, so we mustn't blame her if she appears a little hard. Cousin Becky must be very friendless, I fancy, or she wouldn't think of coming to Beaworthy. There are plenty of people who would want her to be their guests if she was rich, but she is doubtless as poor as ourselves. One more at our table surely cannot make much difference—eh, Mary?"

The children regarded their mother with expectant eyes, rather marvelling at the hesitancy they read in her face, for they were not troubled by thoughts of ways and means. A visitor in the house would have all the charm of novelty for them, and their father had told them so many reminiscences of Cousin Becky that they longed to see her.

"She is awfully nice, isn't she, father?" questioned Roger.

"She used to be very nice, my son, and I don't suppose she has much altered with age. She was never a fussy old maid, and she loved children dearly."

"Oh, mother, do write and ask her to come!" pleaded the little boy coaxingly.

"I certainly will, as you all seem to desire it so much," Mrs. Trent agreed with a smile, "and if she does come we will do our best to make her as comfortable and happy with us as possible. I only hesitated to invite her because I could not quite see how we were to manage; but since Polly is willing to give up her room, and your father thinks Cousin Becky will be satisfied with our humble fare—well, then, I'll write to-night."

Accordingly, as soon as tea was over, Mrs. Trent wrote the letter, and Roger ran out and posted it; and there was a general sense of satisfaction that the right thing had been done. In the course of a few days Cousin Becky's reply was received. It was a brief, grateful note of thanks and acceptance of the invitation, saying the writer hoped to be with her cousins in Princess Street the following week.

CHAPTER III

AT THE ROOKERY

"Is that you, Edgar, darling? Come to the fire and warm yourself. It's snowing, isn't it?"

"Yes, mother. I hope we shall have a good downfall. If it snows like this all through the night we shall be able to make a snow man in the playground to-morrow. Won't that be jolly?"

It was an afternoon several days subsequent to the one on which Mrs. Marsh had called on her relatives in Princess Street; and the scene was the spacious drawing-room at the Rookery, which, with a big coal fire burning in the grate, and its handsome, well-chosen furniture, was a picture of comfort, not to say luxury. Mrs. Marsh sat near the fireplace, a small table bearing tea-things, a plate of thin bread and butter, and part of a rich cake in a silver cake-basket at her side. She had been entertaining callers, but they had left early on account of the snowstorm which had been threatening. Edgar, who had just returned from school, flung his satchel of lesson-books into a corner of the room, and, advancing to the tea-table, helped himself to a hunk of cake. His mother watched him with an indulgent smile; she was naturally very proud and fond of her son, who was indeed a very nice-looking little lad, with his bright blue eyes, fresh complexion, and curly, brown hair.

"Are your feet wet, dearie?" she inquired anxiously, as she poured him out a cup of tea.

"No," he answered untruthfully, for he knew they were. He sat down and tucked his feet out of sight under the chair. "Give me plenty of cream and sugar, please, mother," he said. "This is a very good cake."

"Yes; but had you not better eat some bread and butter with it? It is very rich."

He paid no heed to her suggestion, however, and there was silence for a few minutes till he cut himself a second slice of cake as large as the first.

"My dear child—" began Mrs. Marsh expostulatingly; but Edgar interrupted her:

"Oh, mother, don't fuss!"

"I merely speak for your good, my darling, I—"

"I do wish you wouldn't keep on calling me 'dearie' and 'darling' and names of that sort; it's so silly, just as though I was a baby, and it makes people laugh, and I hate being laughed at!" The boy spoke petulantly with deepening colour, but his eyes drooped beneath his mother's reproachful glance. "I don't believe Roger's mother would be so foolish," he added, "and Roger says you treat me as though I was a girl."

Mrs. Marsh looked both hurt and angry, but she made no response. Her affection for her son showed itself in words of exaggerated endearment, and he was now of an age to greatly dislike being made to appear ridiculous. It had been at his father's wish that he had been entered as a pupil at the Grammar School; Mrs. Marsh had wanted to have him educated by a tutor at home, but her husband had been too wise to listen to her views on the point of their son's education. Edgar should go to a public school, he had firmly declared, the boy would soon find his level there; and that he was certainly doing, the process proving rather a humbling one. Master Edgar Marsh was not quite such an important person in his own estimation to-day as he had been at the commencement of the school only a few weeks previously.

"I walked as far as the corner of Princess Street with Roger this afternoon," Edgar informed his mother by-and-by. "I should not like to live where he does, I told him so."

"What did he say?" asked Mrs. Marsh curiously.

"He didn't say anything, but he got very red and looked angry. He very soon gets angry, you know, and I don't think he liked what I said."

"I thought you told me the other day that you didn't care for Roger, and that you never meant to speak to him again," Mrs. Marsh observed with a slight smile.

"Oh," the little boy exclaimed, appearing somewhat confused, "that was because he hit me; but—but it was partly my fault for—never mind about that! Afterwards he said he was sorry, and we've been better friends since. Roger's all right when you come to know him."

"I'm glad to hear that, because he's your cousin, and though, unfortunately for him, his position in life will be very different from yours, I shouldn't like you to quarrel with him. Your Uncle Martin and I were devoted to each other when we were children; indeed, I've always been much attached to my brother, and I've always made it my first duty to be kind to his family."

"It must be very cold travelling to-day," Edgar remarked, glancing out of the window at the falling snow. "Is it a long journey from London to Beaworthy, mother?"

"Yes; do you know anyone who is making it?"

"I was thinking of Cousin Becky." "Cousin Becky? What do you mean? She's not coming here. I never invited her."

"No. But she's coming to stay with Uncle Martin and Aunt Mary. Didn't you know it, mother? Why, I could have told you that days ago!"

"Then, pray, why didn't you?"

"I never thought of it. Roger told me, and of course I thought you knew. She's coming to-night. Roger's going to the station with Uncle Martin to meet her at seven o'clock and she's to have Polly's room."

"And what's to become of Polly?"

"She's going to sleep in the attic."

"The idea! Mary must be crazy to upset her arrangements for an old woman she has never seen in her life, one in whom she can have no possible interest."

"Roger says Cousin Becky is very poor," Edgar observed thoughtfully. "It must be dreadful to be poor, mother, mustn't it?"

"Yes," she acknowledged, surprised at the unusual gravity of her son's face.

"That's why they invited Cousin Becky to Princess Street," Edgar proceeded, "because she's poor and lonely. Roger says now Cousin Becky's brother is dead she hasn't even a home, and no one wants her—you know you didn't, mother."

"But to burden themselves with an old woman," Mrs. Marsh was commencing, when the keen, questioning gaze with which her little boy was regarding her caused her to break off and leave her sentence unfinished.

"It's so odd you didn't want Cousin Becky here," he said. "I can't think why you didn't, because we've lots of spare rooms, and we're always having visitors. Don't you like Cousin Becky, mother?"

"I have not seen her for many years," was the evasive reply. "Will you have another cup of tea, Edgar? No, I will not allow you to have any more cake; you will make yourself ill."

"Give me just a tiny piece, mother. I'm hungry still."

"Then have some bread and butter."

"No," pouted the spoilt child, "I won't have anything more to eat if I can't have cake."

It ended in his being allowed another slice, and whilst he was eating it, his father, a short, bald, middle-aged man, entered the room, and came up to the fire, rubbing his hands and complaining of the cold.

"We're going to have a heavy fall of snow if I'm not much mistaken," he said. "You'll like that, eh, Edgar? I remember when I was your age there was nothing I liked better than a snowballing match with my school-fellows. Rare fun we used to have."

"Fancy, John, Cousin Becky is coming to Beaworthy after all," Mrs. Marsh informed him. "She's going to stay with Martin. Edgar heard from Roger that she is expected to-night."

"Well, I suppose your brother knows what he is about," Mr. Marsh replied, shrugging his shoulders. "You'll have to ask the old lady to spend a day with you, Janie."

"And ask Aunt Mary, too," said Edgar eagerly; "I like Aunt Mary. But don't have Polly, mother."

"Why not?" inquired Mr. Marsh, looking amused.

"She's such a cheeky little girl," the boy replied, recalling how on one of the rare occasions when he had taken tea with his cousins at their home, Polly had nick-named him "tell-tale" because he had threatened to inform his mother of something which had happened to displease him. He knew better than to do that now, but he seldom encountered Polly without she addressed him as "tell-tale."

"Edgar, your boots are wet!" cried Mrs. Marsh as, in an unwary moment, the little boy drew his feet out from under the chair. "I can see the water oozing out of the leather. Go and change them at once, or you'll catch a terrible cold. How could you say they were not wet when you must have known differently? You ought to be ashamed to be so untruthful."

Edgar was in no wise disconcerted by this rebuke; but he left the drawing-room and went upstairs to his own room, where he discarded his snow-sodden boots for his slippers, and then stood at the window looking out into the garden, which was separated from the high road by tall elm trees, where the rooks built their nests every spring. The snow was falling very fast now, covering the world with a spotless mantle of white; and Edgar's mind reverted to the visitor whom his cousins expected to welcome to their home that night.

"I suppose mother thought she'd be in the way if she came here," he reflected shrewdly, "but I should say she'll be much more in the way in Uncle Martin's poky little house. It's really very kind of Aunt Mary to have her. Roger says his mother is always kind, and that we all ought to try to be—for Jesus' sake, because He loves every living thing, even animals. I suppose that's true, it's in the Bible about His noticing if a sparrow falls, so it must be, but I never thought much of it till Roger spoke to me about it the day after I'd hit that dog. I didn't mean to hurt it—I only meant to frighten it; I suppose it was cowardly. Well, I won't be unkind to an animal again; and I'm glad I didn't make a fuss about Roger's having struck me, especially as he was sorry afterwards."

It was cold in his bedroom, so in a short while the little boy went downstairs. In the hall he encountered Titters, his mother's favourite Persian cat; but when—mindful of his resolution to be kind to animals in future—he essayed to stroke her, she tried to escape from him, and arched her back and raised her fur in anything but a friendly fashion. Truth to tell, he had been in the habit of teasing her, and she consequently mistrusted his intentions. However, he caught her, picked her up, and was carrying her into the drawing-room in his arms when she suddenly gave him a vicious scratch on the cheek, whereupon he dropped her with a cry of mingled anger and pain.

"See what Titters has done to me, mother!" he exclaimed as he entered the drawing-room.

"What a nasty scratch!" Mrs. Marsh said. "But you should not have teased the poor creature, Edgar."

"I was not teasing her, mother."

"Now, my dear, I know better than that. How can you tell me such a naughty story? I do wish you would learn to speak the truth. You are always teasing Titters—I suppose that's only natural as you're a boy—so you need not pretend you were not doing so just now."

Edgar did not argue the point, but he regarded his mother with an injured air which only made her laugh. He was annoyed that she did not believe him, forgetful that not long before he had told her an untruth about his boots, and that not without cause had he gained the reputation of a perverter of the truth.

CHAPTER IV

COUSIN BECKY'S ARRIVAL AT BEAWORTHY

"Isn't it nearly time for you to start, father?" asked Polly, turning from the window out of which, with her face pressed close to the glass, she had been watching the falling snow, and glancing at Mr. Trent, who, during the half-hour which had elapsed since the family had arisen from the tea-table, had been quietly reading the newspaper.

"Very nearly, my dear," he answered, raising his eyes to the clock on the mantelpiece, and then fixing them on his newspaper again.

"I believe the clock's rather slow, father, and it will take you quite quarter of an hour walking to the station. It's half-past six."

"And Cousin Becky's train is not due to arrive till ten minutes past seven, so there's plenty of time. Where is Roger?"

"Gone to put on his boots, father. Don't you think you had better put on yours?"

Mr. Trent laughed as he laid aside his newspaper. "I see you will not be satisfied till I am gone," he remarked. "Fetch my boots, there's a good girl."

Ten minutes later Mr. Trent and Roger were putting on their overcoats in the hall, preparatory to braving the snowstorm. The latter was quite as anxious to start for the station as Polly was to send him off. In fact, both children were much excited about their expected guest.

"You won't be able to wear this much longer," Polly observed, as she assisted her brother into his overcoat, which had become most uncomfortably tight for him. She buttoned it across his chest with some difficulty, adding, "You look like a trussed fowl."

"He has grown so much this winter," said Mrs. Trent, overhearing Polly's unflattering remark on her brother's appearance as she came downstairs. "I wish he could have a new overcoat, but—" She paused with a faint sigh, and Roger said quickly:

"Oh, this one will last me a long time yet, and I don't in the least mind how I look. It's a good warm old coat."

"That's right, Roger, never run down an old friend, especially one that's served you well," said Mr. Trent, at which they all laughed; for, poor though they were and obliged to practise many economies, they were a lighthearted family and happy amongst themselves.

"Surely you are very early in starting for the station," said Mrs. Trent. "There is half an hour before the train is due."

"Yes; but Polly is anxious to get us off," her husband returned, with a smiling glance at his little daughter, "and there's sure to be a good fire in the waiting-room at the station if we have long to wait. I shall not be surprised if the train is late to-night, the snowstorm will probably delay it a little."

"It's snowing very fast," announced Roger, as he opened the door and stepped into the street, followed by his father. "I believe it's inches deep already."

"We must keep up a good fire in the sitting-room, for Cousin Becky is sure to arrive very cold," said Mrs. Trent as she closed the front door. "I wish there was a fireplace in your bedroom, Polly, but the oil-stove has made it feel very warm and comfortable."

The little girl ran upstairs to the room she had vacated for Cousin Becky. A heating stove with a crimson glass shade stood on the floor, and threw a rosy glow around. The apartment was small and plainly furnished, but it looked very cosy, and Polly thought their expected visitor would be very hard to please if she was not satisfied with such a nice little room. She said something of the kind when she joined her mother downstairs a few minutes later, and Mrs. Trent smiled, but made no response. She was as curious as her children to see Cousin Becky, and not a little anxious as well. How the hands of the clock seemed to drag as Polly watched them! Seven o'clock struck, and nearly another hour paced before a cab drew up before the house. Then mother and daughter hastened into the hall, and the former flung open wide the door, a welcoming smile on her face.

"Here she is, Mary!" cried Mr. Trent, as he sprang out of the cab and assisted a little lady to alight. He led her immediately into the house, whilst Roger followed labouring under a bundle of wraps and a rug. "Here she is," he repeated, "almost frozen with cold, I believe. Becky, this is my wife, and this is my little maid, Polly. Go into the sitting-room, out of the draught, whilst I see to the luggage."

Not a word had the stranger spoken yet but she had taken Mrs. Trent's outstretched hand and warmly returned the kiss which the latter had given her; then she had kissed Polly, too, and now she allowed herself to be led into the sitting-room and established in the big, leather-covered easy chair by the fire.

"How good you all are to me!" she exclaimed at length with a quick breath, which sounded very like a sob, as she took off her thick veil, revealing a countenance which, though plain, was redeemed from insignificance by a pair of bright, observant dark eyes—wonderfully soft eyes they were at the present moment, for they smiled through a mist of tears. "Why, you might have known me all your lives by the warmth of your greetings.'"

"I have heard a great deal of you from my husband," Mrs. Trent told her. "You do not seem a stranger at all."

"I am pleased to hear that. What a glorious fire! A good fire is always such a welcome, I think. And what a cosy room!" And the bright, dark eyes wandered around the apartment with its worn Brussels carpet and well-used furniture, with appreciation in their gaze.

"I believe you will find the house comfortable, though small, and—I'm afraid—rather shabby," Mrs. Trent replied.

"It is a home," Cousin Becky declared with a pleased nod. "I've been in many large, handsomely-furnished houses that have never been that. Well," she said, turning her glance upon Polly, who had been watching her intently, "do you think you will like me, my dear?"

"Yes," Polly responded with a smile, by no means abashed at this direct question. "I am sure I shall. But you are not a bit like what I expected."

"Indeed! What did you expect?"

"I thought you would look much older," the little girl candidly admitted.

"I'm nearly seventy, my dear, and that's a good age. But I don't feel old, and I cannot have changed a great deal of late years—except that my hair has grown white—for your father recognised me the minute he saw me on the platform."

At that moment Mr. Trent appeared upon the scene, followed by Roger. They had been helping to take their visitor's luggage upstairs; and Mrs. Trent now suggested that Cousin Becky should go to her room and remove her travelling things, by which time she would be glad of some tea.

"What do you think of her, Polly?" asked Roger, as soon as their mother and Cousin Becky had gone upstairs together.

"I think she looks very nice and kind," was the prompt reply; "but what a little thing she is, Roger! Father, you never told us that."

In truth, Miss Trent was a very little lady, with a slight figure which was wonderfully upright and agile for one her age. When she returned to the sitting-room, Roger pulled the easy chair nearer the fire for her, and Polly placed a cushion behind her shoulders, and she looked at them both with a very tender light shining in her dark eyes.

"Thank you, my dears," she said with the smile which made her plain face look almost beautiful. "I will take the easy chair to-night as I am weary after my journey, but usually I am not so indulgent to myself. Roger, you are very like what your father used to be at your age."

"And do you think I am like Aunt Janie?" asked Polly, veiled anxiety in her tone.

"Slightly, perhaps; but you are more like your mother," was the decided reply.

"Oh, I am glad to hear you say that!" Polly cried delightedly. "I would rather not be like Aunt Janie at all; though everyone says she is very handsome," she added meditatively.

"Polly does not much care for Aunt Janie," Roger explained; "but she's very nice in her way. And Uncle John's very nice, too, but we don't see much of him. Oh, here's Louisa with tea—"

"Which I am sure Cousin Becky must be greatly in need of," Mrs. Trent interposed, not sorry of this opportunity of changing the conversation, "so hush your chatter, children, for a while, and let her take her meal in peace."

"I love listening to their chatter," Cousin Becky said. She did full justice to the chop which had been cooked for her and enjoyed her tea; and afterwards they all sat round the fire, and the children listened whilst their elders conversed about people and places they only knew by name. Then by-and-by Cousin Becky spoke of her brother's death, and her own forlorn condition.

"I cannot tell you how glad I was to receive your letter, my dear," she said to Mrs. Trent. "I considered it was especially kind of you to invite me to visit you as you had never seen me in your life."

"Father wanted you to come, and so did Polly and I," Roger informed her frankly, "but mother was afraid—" He paused in sudden confusion.

"Afraid you might not be satisfied with our mode of living, Becky," Mr. Trent said with a smile, whilst his wife shook her head at him reproachfully.

"The idea!" cried Cousin Becky with a laugh.

"I told her you had had to rough it in your day," Mr. Trent proceeded, "and that you were not a fussy old maid. You see we're living in a small way, and we've had reverses of fortune, as no doubt you have heard, but I don't think we're a discontented family, and we make the best of things—eh, my dear?" he questioned, turning to his wife.

"Yes," she answered, "or, at any rate, we try to do so. Children, I think it is time for you to say good-night; it is long past your usual bed-time."

"I wonder who put those lovely snowdrops in the vase on the dressing-table in my room," said Cousin Becky, as the young people rose obediently to retire for the night.

"Roger did," replied Polly, "he bought them on purpose for you. Do you like them?"

"Indeed I do. Thank you, Roger, so much; it was a most kindly thought which prompted you to get them for me."

The little boy blushed with pleasure, for it was nice to know the flowers were appreciated, and he had been wondering if Cousin Becky had noticed them. After the children had said good-night and left the room, they stood a few minutes in the hall, discussing their visitor in whispers.

"She's awfully jolly," Roger said decidedly, "and she seemed very pleased that I was at the station to meet her with father."

"I like her," Polly answered. "It must be very bad to be alone in the world if you're poor," she continued thoughtfully. "Did you see the tears in her eyes when she talked of her brother and said she had no home now?"

"Yes," assented Roger; "but she didn't say anything about being poor."

"No, but we know she is, from what Aunt Janie said. If she had been rich she'd have been invited to stay at the Rookery." Polly was a sharp little girl, and often surprised her elders by the clearness of her mental sight. "I'm glad she's come here instead," she added heartily, "for we should not see much of her if she was Aunt Janie's visitor."

"I expect not," agreed Roger. "Edgar says he doesn't like Princess Street, and I suppose Aunt Janie doesn't either. I don't mind, do you?"

Polly declared she did not, but her heart was hot with indignation; for she realised, more clearly than did her brother, that Aunt Janie despised their home.

CHAPTER V

AFTER THE SNOWSTORM

"Oh, I say, Roger, do wait for me a moment! What a tremendous hurry you're in! I want to speak to you."

Roger Trent paused to allow the speaker—Edgar Marsh—to come up to him. It was nearly five o'clock on the afternoon subsequent to the night of Cousin Becky's arrival at Beaworthy, and the cousins were later than usual in returning from school, as they had lingered in the playground—a large yard surrounded by high walls at the back of the Grammar School building, which was situated in one of the principal streets of the town—to enjoy a good game of snowballing. Several inches of snow had fallen during the night, but the morning had dawned clear and fine; there had been only a very slight thaw, and now the air was keen and betokened frost.

"I'm in rather a hurry, because we have tea at five o'clock and mother will wonder what's become of me if I'm not home by then," Roger explained, as his cousin joined him and they walked on side by side.

"What a splendid game we've had, haven't we? I believe it's going to freeze, and if it does the streets will be as slippery as glass to-morrow."

"So much the better, then we shall be able to make some slides. I don't mind the cold, do you? But why don't you do up your coat."

"Because it's so uncomfortable if I do; it's too tight for me, I've grown out of it."

"You ought to have a new one; it's awfully shabby."

Roger laughed at the critical way in which Edgar was surveying him, but his colour deepened as he said:

"I shan't have a new one till another winter, that's certain, and perhaps not then; it will all depend—"

"Depend upon what?" asked Edgar inquisitively.

"Upon whether father can afford to buy me one or not," was the frank response.

Edgar was silent for a few moments. Accustomed to possess everything that money could buy, it seemed very dreadful to him that his cousin should not be well clothed. He reflected that Roger and he were much the same height and size, and determined to ask his mother for permission to present him with one of his own overcoats.

"It must be horrid to be poor like that," he remarked; "but, never mind, Roger, I'll see you have another overcoat soon." This was said with a slightly patronising air, though it was kindly meant.

"What do you mean?" Roger demanded quickly.

"I'll give you one of mine."

"I won't have it. I don't want it. I'd rather wear my old one." Roger's tone was distinctly ungrateful, and he appeared vexed. "You'd better mind your own business, Edgar, and let me mind mine."

Edgar looked considerably taken aback. He saw he had annoyed his companion, but he had not the faintest idea how he had done so. However, he was wise enough to let the matter drop.

"Did Cousin Becky come last night?" he inquired. "Mother'll be sure to ask me when I get home."

"She arrived by the ten minutes past seven train," Roger replied. "Father and I met her at the station—the train was more than half an hour late—and we drove home in a cab. I enjoyed it."

"Enjoyed what?"

"The drive."

"Oh!" Edgar exclaimed rather contemptuously. "Tell me what Cousin Becky's like."

"She's very small, and her hair is quite white, and she has very dark eyes. Polly and I think we shall like her."

"Will she stay long?"

"I don't know. Mother asked her for a few weeks."

The boys had reached the corner of Princess Street now, and were about to separate when Edgar impulsively caught up a handful of snow and flung it in his companion's face. Roger had not expected this, but he laughed and promptly returned the compliment, and soon they were engaged in a smart game of snowballing, in which a couple of errand boys who happened to be passing, joined. By-and-by Roger unfortunately slipped and fell full length on the sloppy ground; but he picked himself up, unhurt, though very wet and dirty, and returned to the battle. The game would have lasted much longer than it did, had not a policeman come round the corner upon the combatants and promptly dispersed them.

Of course, Roger was late for tea, for, upon reaching home, he found it was absolutely necessary to change his clothes. It was little wonder that Louisa grumbled when he marched into the kitchen, after having put on a dry suit, bearing his wet garments, which he begged her to dry and clean for him in time for him to wear next day. "Of all the thoughtless boys I ever knew, I do believe you are the worst, Master Roger," she said emphatically as she stuffed paper into his dripping boots to prevent their shrinking. "You'll soon have no clothes to wear, and what will you do then?" As the little boy offered no solution to this problem, she continued in the same scolding tone, "I don't know what the mistress will say when she sees your second-best suit in this terrible state. Well, leave the things here, I'll try to get them dry and do my best with them, for it's certain you can't go to school to-morrow looking such a sight as that!" And a smile broke upon her countenance as her eyes travelled over his figure. He had been obliged to don a much-worn suit, darned at the knees and elbows, and too small for him every way.

"It's very kind of you, Louisa," he said gratefully, "I'll do you a good turn some day."

"Will you, Master Roger? Well, I believe you would if you could, so I'll take the will for the deed. Boys will be boys, I suppose, and I daresay your clothes are not really much damaged after all."

After that Roger left the kitchen and went into the sitting-room. He apologised to his mother for being late, and drank his luke-warm tea and ate several slices of thick bread and butter with relish. Cousin Becky occupied the seat at his mother's right hand, and Polly sat opposite. Mr. Trent was not present, for he did not, as a rule, leave the office till six o'clock.

"I have not been outside the door all day," Polly remarked in a slightly desponding tone, after she had listened to her brother's account of the fun he and his schoolmates had enjoyed in the playground that afternoon, "and I do love walking in snow."

"You know you have a slight cold, my dear," Mrs. Trent said, "and I did not want you to run the risk of making it worse."

"Besides, my boots leak," Polly muttered under her breath, "so I could not have gone out anyway."

Mrs. Trent glanced quickly at Cousin Becky, but apparently she had not heard the little girl's complaint, for she was giving her attention to Roger, who was answering a question she had put to him about his school. A look of relief crossed Mrs. Trent's face, seeing which Polly grew suddenly ashamed of her discontentment, and would have given anything to have been able to recall the words which she realised must have grieved her mother to hear; she well knew she would not have had leaky boots if such a state of things could have been remedied.

After tea the children sat at one end of the table preparing their lessons for the following day. Up to the present Polly had been educated by her mother, but it was hoped she would be able to be sent to school later on—to which day she was looking forward with much pleasure, for she had but a dull time of it at home, poor little girl, and she was far more inclined than her brother to chafe against the circumstances of her life. On one occasion she had overheard it remarked to her mother that it was a shame Mr. Marsh did not give his brother-in-law a larger salary for his services, and she had secretly felt a deep sense of resentment against her uncle ever since. Then, too, she disliked her aunt, because that lady did not own sufficient tact to confer her favours in a different manner; and she despised Edgar because his mother petted and spoilt him. So, it must be confessed that poor Polly had but little affection for those relations outside her own household. But the little girl forgot her grievances when, later on, and lessons finished, she and her brother drew their chairs near the fire and Cousin Becky entered into conversation with them, encouraging them to talk of themselves. Before the evening was over the visitor had gained a clear insight into the character of her young cousins, and had learnt a great deal about the family at the Rookery.

Seeing the children were entertaining her guest, Mrs. Trent by-and-by left the room in search of Louisa, whom she found in the kitchen carefully drying Roger's second-best suit of clothes before the fire.

"I'm drying the things slowly so that they shan't shrink," Louisa explained. "Isn't master come yet, ma'am?" she inquired as she glanced at her mistress' face.

"No, and I cannot imagine what's keeping him; he generally comes straight home from the office. I cannot help being nervous, for I know something unusual must have happened to have detained him. It is past eight o'clock. Supposing he should have met with an accident? I expect the streets are like glass to-night."

"I wouldn't go to meet trouble if I were you, ma'am," advised Louisa. She had been in Mrs. Trent's service for several years, and had insisted on accompanying the family to Princess Street, having declared nothing should induce her to leave the mistress to whom she was deeply attached. "You're too anxious, ma'am, that comes of having had so many troubles, I expect; but if anything had happened to the master you would have been the first to have been informed of it. There! Surely that's his step in the hall."

It was, and Mrs. Trent's face brightened immediately. She hastened into the hall, where she found her husband divesting himself of his overcoat.

"I'm late, for we're a hand short at the office," he explained, "and I've had extra work to do. I hope you haven't been anxious, Mary? Yes? That was foolish of you, my dear. How have you been getting on with Cousin Becky?"

"Very well indeed. I have taken a great liking to her, Martin, for she seems so simple-hearted and sincere. She has been doing some mending for me, she begged me to find her some work."

"John mentioned her to me this afternoon," Mr. Trent said, lowering his voice. "He said he considered we'd acted unwisely in inviting her here and that we should probably see we had made a mistake. However, Janie's coming to call on her, and I believe she's to be invited to the Rookery to spend a day. It made my blood boil to hear the tone John adopted in speaking of her—as though she was of no account because she's a poor relation. If Fortune had smiled on us, Mary—" Mr. Trent paused, then added a trifle huskily, "God's will be done. If Fortune had smiled on us, perhaps we might have been unsympathetic too."

CHAPTER VI

"SHOWING OFF"

Cousin Becky had been nearly a week at Beaworthy when, one afternoon, Mrs. Marsh called to see her. It was on a Saturday, and Polly and Roger had gone for a walk as the weather was beautifully fine and dry, so they were absent during their aunt's visit and were not told much concerning it, though they would have liked to have known all that had been said.

"I do wonder what Cousin Becky thinks of Aunt Janie," Polly said to her brother. "I don't like to ask her, but I should dearly like to know."

But the old lady did not say what she thought of Mrs. Marsh, so Polly's curiosity remained unsatisfied; nor, after the few hours she and Mrs. Trent spent at the Rookery one afternoon of the following week, did she have many remarks to make about the home of her well-to-do cousin, but she expressed an interest in Edgar, with whom she had apparently been somewhat favourably impressed. "He seems a manly little fellow," she said, "and I hope his mother will not spoil him by over-indulgence."

"I fear she has done that already," Mrs. Trent replied gravely, "for he is a very wayward and disobedient boy, and he is always making mischief with the servants; he treats them in a most disrespectful manner, from all accounts."

"And he tells stories," declared Polly. "Doesn't he, Roger?"

"Y-e-s," Roger answered reluctantly. "I don't think he means any harm by it, and I don't know that he would tell a big lie, but he does tell a lot of little fibs, and Aunt Janie knows it too, for the last time I was at the Rookery she kept on saying to him, 'Oh, Edgar, dearie, I do wish you would learn to speak the truth!'"

It was impossible not to smile as Roger imitated so exactly the plaintive tone in which his aunt was in the habit of reproving her son; but Cousin Becky became serious again almost immediately.

"It is a terrible thing to be untruthful," she said gravely, "and I believe that, as a rule, one who tells little fibs, as Roger calls them, will not hesitate to utter a big lie when occasion arises. Do you see much of Edgar?" she inquired of Roger.

"Not much, Cousin Becky, and before we went to school I hardly ever had anything to do with him. Sometimes he walks as far as the corner of the street with me now, but I never ask him to come here, for he doesn't like our house."

"It's not grand enough for him," said Polly, tossing her head, "and I'm sure we don't want him here. I can't bear him."

"Oh, he's all right in his way, Polly," said her brother. "I think he's rather nicer than he was at the beginning of the term; there's a lot of fun in him, really. He said something yesterday about asking me to tea at the Rookery on Saturday; he said he would speak to Aunt Janie about it. I wonder if he will."

"Oh, I daresay!" Polly returned in a would-be indifferent tone as she speculated whether an invitation would be extended to her too.

However, that was not to be the case, for when Saturday came Roger only was asked to the Rookery, and the little girl found herself left out in the cold. She was vastly indignant, though she would not for the world have acknowledged as much; she felt she had been slighted, and, to make the matter worse, her father condoled with her on having to remain at home, whereupon Roger said carelessly:

"Oh, she doesn't mind, father! She doesn't like Edgar, so it wouldn't be much fun for her, anyway."

Polly was on the brink of tears, for though she certainly did not like her cousin, it would have been a great treat for her to have spent a few hours at the Rookery; and she much desired to see the "winter garden," as her uncle called the greenhouse where he grew hyacinths, primulas, cyclamens, heaths, and various other flowers which flourish under glass in early spring. She kept silence, however, and hoped no one noticed her disappointment, for she was successful in blinking away the tears which, against her will, had risen to her eyes.

When Roger arrived at the Rookery, he found that his aunt and uncle had gone away to spend the day; but Edgar, who had been on the look-out for him and met him at the front door, appeared to think they would have a much more enjoyable time on that account, "for now we shall be able to do exactly as we like," he said gleefully, adding that his mother had given orders that they were to have whatever they pleased for tea.

It was a lovely February day with a touch of spring in the air, for the weather, after a short spell of frost, had turned milder, so the boys spent most of the afternoon in the gardens and outbuildings connected with the house. Roger was charmed with the flowers in the winter garden and would have liked to have remained longer to admire their manifold beauties, but Edgar grew impatient and hurried him away. From thence they visited the stable, where the visitor was allowed to smooth the sleek sides of the pair of horses which he longed to be able to drive and, much to the amusement of a groom who stood by chewing a straw, he confessed his ambition to be a coachman when he should be grown-up. The idea seemed to tickle the fancy of Edgar, for he laughed immoderately.

"Why, Roger, you'd have to wear livery if you were a coachman," he reminded his cousin.

"Of course," Roger answered. "I shouldn't mind that. What are you laughing at? I love horses, and—"

"And they love you, sir," interposed the groom good-naturedly; "animals know those who like them. Look at that now!"

One of the horses had turned his head and was rubbing his nose against Roger's sleeve.

The little boy was very reluctant to leave the stable; but Edgar declared that he was hungry and wanted his tea, so they went into the house, where they found a most tempting repast awaiting them in the dining-room—a repast which, to the visitor, appeared all that any reasonable person could desire, though Edgar did a great deal of grumbling. There were two sorts of jam on the table, but the young host was satisfied with neither and rang the bell, bidding the maid-servant who answered his summons to bring another kind. Then he complained that the cake was stale, and that the bread and butter was not cut thin enough—Roger thought the cake was delicious, and the bread and butter, if anything, too thin—and at length the servant grew exasperated and told him he was a foolish boy to try to show off before his cousin, a remark which made him very angry indeed.

"I shall tell mother how impertinent she's been and get her dismissed!" he exclaimed as the young woman left the room. "She had no business to speak to me in such a manner as that."

"I think you were trying to show off, though," Roger told him candidly, "for really it's a beautiful cake, and the bread and butter is much thinner than we ever have it at home, even if we have strangers to tea. Yes, I'll have a little more strawberry jam, please. I'm making a very good tea."

So was Edgar, though he would not admit it. He felt exceedingly humiliated, for he had desired to make Roger believe that the servants of the household were under his control, and he had certainly not succeeded in his attempt. For a short while he looked extremely cross; but he soon brightened up after tea, when he led the way into his father's study, and exhibited to his companion a collection of coins, and another of foreign stamps, both of which he represented to be his own. As a matter-of-fact that was perfectly untrue, and he had no right to show either the coins or the stamps without his father's permission. Of course, Roger did not know that, and he began to look on his cousin as a person of property.

"I wonder you don't sell some of those stamps if they're worth such a heap of money as you say," he said, as he watched Edgar replace the stamps in the cabinet from which he had taken them, "I am sure I should."

"But, you see, I don't want the money," Edgar reminded him.

"No, I suppose not."

The coins were kept in the shallow drawers of another cabinet which Edgar had unlocked with a key—one of a bunch he had taken from a desk on the writing-table. He would not permit Roger to touch them, only to look, and afterwards he locked the drawers and returned the keys to the exact spot where he had found them. Then he took up a cigarette case which he opened and offered to Roger.

"Have one?" he asked with an assumption of carelessness.

"No, thank you," Roger responded, laughing, for he had not taken the offer seriously; "I don't smoke."

"I do," was the astounding reply, as Edgar selected a cigarette from the case and proceeded to light it with a wax match he took from a match-box which he produced from his pocket. Roger watched him take two or three whiffs in silence, dumbfounded at the sight. At last he cried wonderingly:

"Fancy Uncle John allowing you to smoke! Aren't you afraid of being sick?"

"No; you see, I'm used to it," Edgar replied, a flush rising to his cheeks. "You may as well try a cigarette, you'll enjoy it."

"No, thank you. Of course I know lots of the boys at the Grammar School do smoke—on the sly; but father said he hoped I never would, and I promised him I wouldn't."

"Oh, well, my father said something of the same kind, but I didn't promise one way or the other. He's never found me out yet—"

"Then he doesn't know. Oh, Edgar, how wrong of you! How can you bear to do it? Do put the cigarette down."

"Nonsense!" Edgar smoked on more out of a spirit of bravado than because he was enjoying the cigarette. He did not indulge in a second, however. "Look here, don't you go home and tell anyone I've been smoking," he said as he noted the expression of disapproval on his cousin's tell-tale countenance, "for you'll get me into a row if you do. Father's awfully against boys smoking."

"Then do say you won't smoke again, Edgar. It's awfully wrong of you, really."

"Oh, I shall be careful I'm not found out. I shouldn't smoke here if mother and father were at home, but I often do in my own room. Why, you look quite shocked! What a young innocent you are!"

"I'm no younger than you—that is, not much, only a few months. But, I say, Edgar, you really oughtn't to smoke if Uncle John doesn't wish you to; it's deceiving him;" and Roger spoke very seriously.

"Well, I daresay you deceive your father sometimes—"

"Indeed I don't."

"Because you're afraid of being found out!" Edgar cried scornfully. "I never guessed before that you were such a coward!"

"I'm not a coward!" Roger retorted, growing red with indignation. "But I wouldn't try to deceive father even if there was no fear of his finding it out. God would know, anyway. Mother says we should never do anything we wouldn't like Him to know. You have no right to call me a coward—"

"I didn't really mean it, so don't let us quarrel," Edgar broke in hastily. "Oh," he exclaimed as Roger suddenly declared it was time for him to leave, "don't go yet! It is quite early."

"It's half-past six," Roger replied, glancing at the brass face of an old-fashioned clock in a black oak case, which stood against the wall near the writing-table, "and mother said I was to be back by seven. It will take me quite half an hour to get home."

"You won't tell about my smoking, will you?" questioned Edgar anxiously as he followed his cousin out of the room into the hall.

"No, of course I won't," was the reassuring response, "I wouldn't be such a sneak as that. Good-bye, Edgar. Thank you for asking me to tea—it was a jolly nice tea, too, and I enjoyed it awfully. Good-bye."

Edgar stood at the front door and watched his late companion out of sight. He was growing to like Roger more than any of his other school-fellows, and he had the sense to see that he had made no favourable impression upon him by the manner in which he had set his father's command at defiance, and he heartily wished he had not smoked that cigarette. He was uneasily conscious that the other boy knew that he had only been "showing off."

CHAPTER VII

SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT THE ROOKERY

Polly and Roger Trent always looked forward with the greatest pleasure to Sunday, for they generally spent the afternoon of that day in their father's company. If the weather was fine he took them for a long walk in the country, past the clay works which lay directly on the outskirts of Beaworthy, to the beautiful lanes and woods beyond; if, on the contrary, it was wet and they were obliged to remain in the house, he read to them or told them stories. In that way they had become familiar with Bible history before they could read themselves; and at a little later date they had listened to the entrancing history of "The Pilgrim's Progress." They had followed Christian's journey with all its dangers and difficulties along the King's highway right onward to the celestial city; they had gloried in the fight between Christian and Apollyon in the valley of Humiliation, and had insisted every time their father had recounted it to them of a minute description of the fiend—the monster hideous to behold, clothed with scales like a fish, and wings like a dragon, and feet like a horse, and a mouth like a lion! And they had shed bitter tears over the martyrdom of Faithful, though they had never failed to brighten at the account of the chariot and horses which had borne him with the sound of trumpet through the clouds to the celestial gate into the presence of the King in His beauty.

"I hate Sundays," Edgar Marsh had told Roger on one occasion, much to the latter's surprise; "it's such a stupid day. I go to church with mother and father in the morning, I don't mind that; but in the afternoon I never know what to do with myself: father generally shuts himself up in his study and tells me not to bother him—I suppose he goes to sleep—and mother reads in the drawing-room. Don't you hate Sundays, too?"

"No, indeed!" Roger had answered; and then he had told a great deal about the delightful Sunday afternoons he was in the habit of spending, and Edgar had listened more than a little enviously.

The afternoon following Roger's visit to the Rookery found Edgar in a very discontented state of mind. As usual, his father had betaken himself to his study, and his mother had settled herself comfortably in an easy chair near the drawing-room fire, a book of sermons in her hand. The little boy, standing disconsolately by the window, looking out on the velvety lawn, the grass of which was beginning to spring fresh and green, was debating how he should pass the two hours which must elapse before tea-time, when Mrs. Marsh inquired:

"Why do you not take a book and read, my dear? There are some very pretty stories suitable for Sunday reading in that book I gave you for a New Year's present."

"I hate reading," was the ill-tempered response, "especially babyish stories; and I hate Sundays—"

"It's very naughty of you to say so," Mrs. Marsh interposed reprovingly, shaking her head at him.

"I do hate Sundays," he persisted, "because I never know what to do, and you won't let me play. Uncle Martin takes Polly and Roger for walks on Sunday afternoons, or tells them stories—stories with some sense in them. I wish my father was like Uncle Martin; but father never goes for walks or—"

"You must remember he is an older man than your uncle," Mrs. Marsh broke in quickly, "and he is so wrapped up in business affairs that he has little time to spare for anything else."

"But he doesn't do business on Sunday, mother."

"No, on Sunday he is glad to rest—Sunday is the day of rest, you know. Your father works very hard all the week."

"So does Uncle Martin—much harder than father, I believe. Is that an interesting book you're reading, mother? Won't you read it to me?"

"I am afraid you would not like it; you would not understand it. Come and sit by the fire and tell me how you and Roger amused yourselves yesterday afternoon."

"I took him all over the place," Edgar said as he seated himself in a chair near his mother's. "He likes to see the gardens and the greenhouses—he seems awfully fond of flowers—and he's quite crazy about horses: says he'd like to be a coachman when he grows up. He enjoyed his tea tremendously, and afterwards we—we just stuck about and talked," he concluded vaguely.

"Did he say when Cousin Becky leaves?" Mrs. Marsh inquired.

"No. I don't think she's going yet, she's only been there about a fortnight, you know, and Roger said he hoped she'd stay much longer. They all like her so much, and she isn't a bit in the way; I asked Roger if she was, and he said no; he wished she was going to stay altogether. Did you ever read 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' mother?" he asked with an abrupt change of the subject.

"Yes, years ago, when I was a little girl; I believe there is an old copy in the house somewhere."

"Has it pictures in it?" Edgar questioned eagerly.

"No, I think not. Why?"

"Because there are pictures in Uncle Martin's—Roger told me about them. There's one of a great wicked monster all over scales and breathing out fire and smoke."

"I suppose you mean Apollyon?"

"Yes, that's his name, I'd forgotten it. And there's a picture of a hideous giant called Giant Despair who lives in a castle called Doubting Castle. Roger says 'The Pilgrim's Progress' is all about wonderful adventures, and I like stories of that sort best of all. Oh, mother, I do wish you'd get me a copy of the book with pictures and read it to me on Sunday afternoons!"

"Certainly, you shall have the book if you wish it, dearie."

"And you'll read it to me, mother?" he coaxed.

"You lazy boy!" she admonished, with her indulgent smile. "Why cannot you read it yourself?"

"It would be so much nicer if you read it to me," he declared earnestly, "then we could talk about it afterwards like Uncle Martin does with Polly and Roger. Do promise, mother."

So she promised, and Edgar looked jubilant. For the first time it struck Mrs. Marsh that her little son lacked congenial society in his own home. She had always indulged him and given him everything for which he had expressed a desire, but she had never made a companion of him; for, as a rich man's wife, she took a foremost place in the town and her life was given up to social claims. She determined now, however, that for the future she would, at any rate, devote her Sunday afternoons to her boy as her brother devoted his to his children.

"I'll order the book to-morrow," she said, "a well-illustrated copy which I hope will come up to your expectations, Edgar."

At that moment the door opened to admit the master of the house, who entered the room with a frown on his brow which denoted displeasure.

"Edgar, did you meddle with anything in my study yesterday?" he interrogated, fixing a searching glance on his son.

"No, father," Edgar promptly replied, secretly very alarmed, though he met his father's gaze with an immovable face.

"But you and your cousin were there during the evening—I have ascertained that from the servants. Come, speak the truth. Were you smoking?"

"No, father." The response was not quite so unfaltering this time.

"Then how comes it several cigarettes are gone from here?" Mr. Marsh inquired, producing the case from which Edgar had helped himself on the preceding evening.

"I—I only smoked one," Edgar confessed. After Roger had left he had returned to the study and taken several more cigarettes—under the deluded idea that his father would not miss them—which he had subsequently hidden in his own room. "Oh, father, please don't look so angry! It really and truly was only one!"

"Then who smoked the others? Your cousin, I suppose. Why did you not speak the truth and own what you two had been doing instead of uttering such a daring falsehood? How often have I told you of my great abhorrence of small boys smoking?"

"I am very sorry," faltered Edgar, alarmed at the severity of Mr. Marsh's tone.

"Oh, John, you must overlook his naughtiness this time, and forgive him!" broke in Mrs. Marsh eagerly; "he won't smoke again, will you, Edgar, darling?"

"No, mother," the boy responded, watching his father anxiously, "I won't."

"There, John, you hear that!" she exclaimed.

"I'm afraid Edgar's word is not to be trusted," Mr. Marsh observed dryly. "I'm exceedingly angry with him, and he ought to be severely punished."

"But not on a Sunday, John. Remember the day. You must forgive him this once, and I'm sure he'll keep his word and never smoke again. Besides, it was quite as naughty of Roger, and it would not be fair to punish one boy without the other. When boys get together they always lead each other into mischief."

"Please forgive me, father," murmured Edgar.

"You should have owned the truth at once," Mr. Marsh told him gravely, "nothing angers me so much as to catch you in a lie. Well—" he looked dubiously from mother to son—"I suppose I must forgive you this time and not punish you, though I'm not certain I'm doing my duty in letting the matter pass so easily. I hope, Janie," he added, pointedly addressing his wife, "that you will give Edgar a good talking to; and remember Roger Trent is never to come here again unless you are at home."

Mrs. Marsh heaved a sigh of intense relief as her husband went away, shutting the door behind him; and then she gave her son the good talking to which she had been advised to administer. She told him never to be tempted to smoke again on any account, for if he did and his father found it out, she knew he would never be dealt with so leniently a second time. "You have heard your father frequently speak of the great objection he has to boys smoking," she said, "so I cannot imagine what made you do it. You are terribly disobedient, Edgar, and so dreadfully untruthful, too. It is not as if you had never been taught the wickedness of telling stories, and I am sure I am always begging you to speak the truth. It makes me very unhappy to think we cannot take your word."

Mrs. Marsh looked so distressed that Edgar, who was really fond of her, felt a sincere pang of regret shoot through his selfish little heart. He recalled how often she had concealed his misdoings from his father—better for him if she had not—and how she had pleaded that he might not be punished to-day, and his glance rested on her with an expression of grateful affection.

"I will try to be more truthful," he said earnestly; "do believe me, mother, I really will."

"That's my own dear, good boy," she responded tenderly, "you'll make mother so happy if you'll only learn to speak the truth. Mind, I cannot interfere between you and your father if he ever discovers you've been smoking again; and, remember, although he's very indulgent and kind to you, he can be very severe at times."

"I'll remember," Edgar replied; "promise you I won't smoke again." His spirits were beginning to rise. He had listened patiently to all his mother had had to say, and he knew she would not revert to it—she was not in the habit of dwelling on unpleasant subjects. But he did not consider it worth while to explain that his cousin had not smoked as well as himself, nor did he confess to the possession of the cigarettes which he had hidden in his room, for he quite intended to throw them away.

CHAPTER VIII

COUSIN BECKY FINDS A HOME

"Polly, do you know I have been here a month to-day?"

It was about four o'clock on a fine March afternoon, and Cousin Becky sat on a chair near the sitting-room window, her busy fingers employed in sewing, whilst occasionally her sharp dark eyes strayed from her work to the only other occupant of the room—Polly—who was reading a story-book.

"Yes, Cousin Becky," Polly answered, closing her book, in which she was not very interested, and coming to the window, where she stood examining a pot of crocuses, just opening into flower, which she had cherished through the winter and which now graced the window sill. "How the time has flown, to be sure! It doesn't seem nearly so long—at least, not to me."

COUSIN BECKY AND POLLY.

"Nor to me either. I have never thanked you for giving up your room to me, my dear; in fact, I did not know you had done so until a few days ago when Roger—"

"Oh, Roger should not have told you!" Polly broke in, looking vexed.

"I am very glad he did. I feel very grateful to you, Polly."

"I have been quite comfortable in the attic; it is really a nice big room, only of course it has a sloping roof and the window is rather small and high in the wall! I have grown to like it, indeed I have."

"Still, you will be glad to get back to your own little room, I expect?"

"No; because then you will be gone, and I shan't like that."

There was a ring of sincerity in the little girl's voice which brought an exceedingly tender expression into her companion's eyes.

"I was speaking to your parents about my departure this morning," Cousin Becky said after a brief silence, "and they asked me to extend my visit."

"Oh, I do hope you will!" Polly cried, her countenance brightening.

"Then you have not found your old cousin much in the way, my dear?"

"In the way? No, indeed! We have simply loved to have you with us, and we shall miss you dreadfully when you go; I heard mother say so to father yesterday."

"Perhaps I may not go just yet. I am very fond of you all, Polly; and I like your home, and I have accounted it a privilege to be here. You know, I have no home of my own, and I thought of making one at Beaworthy; but I am doubtful still what my plans for the future will be. I am naturally a sociable person, and I dread the thought of living alone. Your mother and father have asked me to remain here, at any rate for the present, and I have gladly consented to do so. I am going to pay a small sum weekly for my board, so that I shall not be a burden on my kind relations; but, on the other hand, the sum will not be sufficiently large for them to get any profit by me. So you see, child, you are not going to get rid of me so soon as you thought."

"I am very glad," Polly asserted heartily. "Do you mean you are going to live with us altogether, Cousin Becky?"

"I mean that your dear parents have told me that I may always look upon their house as my home—as one spot in the world where I shall be welcome."

"How pleased Roger will be!" the little girl cried earnestly.

"The only thing is, Polly, I do not like taking your room—"

"Oh, please don't trouble about that, Cousin Becky! Indeed, you need not. I don't feel a bit lonely in my attic, for I'm next door to Louisa, and I can look out of the window if I stand on a box. Really, I quite like my attic, now. Oh!" she exclaimed with sudden excitement in her tone, "I do believe that's mother coming—at last!"

Earlier in the afternoon news had been brought to Mrs. Trent that there had been an accident to a labourer in the clay pits. The man—Caleb Glubb by name—had married a servant of the Trents some years before, and Mrs. Trent had gone to ascertain the true facts of the case. As Polly spoke, her mother appeared in sight, and a few minutes later she entered the house and came immediately into the sitting-room.

"Is Caleb much hurt?" Polly inquired, glancing anxiously at her mother's face, which wore an expression of grave concern.

"Yes, Polly, I am afraid he is," was the reply. "I found poor Sarah Glubb in terrible grief, for they had taken her husband to the hospital, and she had no one to leave with the children whilst she went to make inquiries about him. Four little ones she has," Mrs. Trent explained to Cousin Becky, who was listening attentively, "the youngest not two months old. So I remained with the children whilst Sarah went to the hospital. Poor soul, she returned almost heart-broken, for her husband has been very badly injured—a quantity of clay fell on him and crushed him badly—and the doctors say, even if he recovers, he will be unable to work for many weeks, or perhaps months; and, meanwhile, there are four little mouths for Sarah to find food for. Oh dear, oh dear!" and the tears swam in Mrs. Trent's eyes as she spoke, "what I would give if I were only rich!"

"Then perhaps you wouldn't give much," Cousin Becky remarked a little dryly.

"Oh, Cousin Becky," cried Polly reproachfully, "I am sure mother would!"

"It is generally poor people who help each other," the old lady said, nodding her head sagely. "Does the injured man work for Mr. Marsh?" she inquired.

"Yes," Mrs. Trent assented, "and I suppose he will get compensation for his injuries under the Workmen's Compensation Act; but, meanwhile—"

"Meanwhile, of course, Mr. Marsh will see his family is provided with necessaries?"

"I don't know that he will. Men frequently meet with accidents in the clay pits, but I don't think John interests himself in them individually. Ah, here's Roger!" she exclaimed, as her little son burst into the room.

"Mother, have you heard what's happened to Sarah's husband?" he cried excitedly.

"Yes, my dear," she answered, "I have been to see Sarah and know all about the accident. The Glubbs have been unable to lay aside anything against a rainy day," she continued, again addressing Cousin Becky, "for they have had to contend against sickness; and last winter, owing to the wet season, the men were often unable to work in the clay pits. I do not know how poor Sarah will manage to feed her children or keep a roof above their heads now."

"There is One who will not forget them," Cousin Becky said softly.

"Can't we help them, mother?" Roger asked. Then as Mrs. Trent looked dubious, he proceeded eagerly, "Oh, surely we can do something? I'll go without sugar in my tea and eat bread and butter only for tea without any cake or jam, and then you'll be able to save that out of your house-keeping money, won't you? And I'll give up my pocket-money too."

"That's only twopence a week, Roger," Polly reminded him.

"Still, that would be a little help, wouldn't it?" he asked, appealing to his mother.

"Certainly it would," she replied, "if you desire to help poor Sarah you most certainly shall."

"And I too!" Polly cried eagerly.

"Both of you," agreed Mrs. Trent; "we will all see what we can do. I am glad my children desire to bear other people's burdens. But I wish we had more to give."

"Do you remember what the Pilgrims saw on Mount Charity?" asked Cousin Becky, regarding her young cousins with her bright smile. "I heard your father reading that part of 'The Pilgrim's Progress' to you on Sunday."

"Of course we remember," Roger answered quickly; "the pilgrims saw a man with a bundle of cloth lying before him, out of which he kept on cutting garments for the poor, but his bundle of cloth was never the less."

"And the pilgrims were told that he who has a heart to give shall never want himself," Cousin Becky said; "I think if people oftener remembered that they would be more open-hearted—and open-handed."

"Oh, Roger." cried Polly, with sudden recollection, "do you know Cousin Becky isn't going to leave us after all? She's going to live with us."

"Really?" he exclaimed, his face expressive of mingled pleasure and surprise. "Well, I am glad!" and he impulsively flung his arms around the old lady and gave her a hearty kiss.

"You are all so kind to me, and have made me so happy," Cousin Becky murmured, in a slightly tremulous tone, much touched by the little boy's spontaneous act of affection; "I felt such a lonely old woman that night I arrived here a month ago your welcome warmed and cheered my heart as nothing else could have done."

"This will be your home too, now," Roger remarked reflectively; "you see, mother, father was right: Cousin Becky is satisfied with our ways."

When Mr. Trent returned at six o'clock, he brought the news that Caleb Glubb had rallied somewhat, and it was now hoped his life would be spared. "I called at the hospital on my way home from the office," he explained, "and made inquiries. I am glad you have been to see Sarah," he said to his wife. "We must try to help her in any little way we can."

And during the days which followed, the Trents found various ways of assisting their old servant out of their slender means, by small acts of self-sacrifice ungrudgingly rendered; and Cousin Becky busied herself in mending some garments of Polly's which the little girl had outgrown, for the use of poor Sarah's children.

"Do you know, Sarah tells me that on each Saturday morning since her husband's accident, she has received a postal order for a sovereign," Mrs. Trent informed the others one evening, a few weeks later. "It has always come by post, from Beaworthy, anonymously, and she cannot imagine who it is that sends it. It flashed through my mind it might be Janie; but, if so, why should she send it anonymously?"

"Oh, it isn't Aunt Janie, because she didn't even know about the accident till this afternoon," rejoined Roger. "I met her in the town, and she spoke to me, and asked for you all, and especially for Cousin Becky. I told her Cousin Becky was making up some clothing for Sarah's children—she remembered Sarah when she lived with us as cook, but she hadn't heard of the accident to Caleb. I wonder Uncle John hadn't told her. So, you see, it isn't Aunt Janie who sends the postal orders."

"Perhaps it's Uncle John," suggested Polly.

"He would not send them anonymously. No, it is some good fairy," said Mrs. Trent with a smile, "who does not wish to be known. Well, the money is proving a great blessing and is going where it is really required."

"I told Aunt Janie that Cousin Becky is going to stay on with us," Roger remarked. "She was awfully astonished."

"Why? What did she say?" asked Polly, her curiosity aroused.

"She said, 'I am utterly amazed!' and she looked it," the little boy answered, with emphasis in his tone.

Cousin Becky gave a soft involuntary laugh, which made everyone glance at her with surprise. She was apparently intensely amused, for her eyes were dancing with merriment. She had improved both in health and spirits during the few weeks she had been at Beaworthy, and was evidently quite contented and happy. A cheerful soul was Cousin Becky, one of those who are like a gleam of sunshine in the house, one whose very presence was invigorating. Mrs. Trent had discovered already that Cousin Becky knew a great deal more about the management of a small income than she did herself, and was always ready with advice or help, if either was wanted; and the children had found out that the old lady could, and was willing to, assist them in the preparation of their lessons.

"Why, how clever she is!" Roger had exclaimed on one occasion, after Cousin Becky had helped him with his Latin. "She knows about everything, it seems to me, and yet she's not a bit stuck up."

Even Louisa had her word of praise for the new inmate of the household. "She's the most helpful body I ever knew," she confided to her mistress. "She gives no trouble at all, and I'm really glad she's going to stay."

CHAPTER IX

A MORNING WALK

It was April, and the boys of the Beaworthy Grammar School were having a fortnight's vacation, only a few days of which had passed as yet, so that it greatly astonished Polly and Roger Trent to be informed by their cousin, whom they met in the town one morning, that he wished the holidays were over.

"Are you so fond of work, then?" Polly questioned, in her surprise.

"No, certainly not," he answered, regarding her sharply to see if she was laughing at him, "but I've nothing to do. Mother has several visitors staying in the house, all grown-up people, and they're no fun whatever, and I've no one to talk to or play with. Where are you two off?" he asked, glancing at the big basket the little girl was carrying.

"We are going gathering primroses," Roger explained. "Would you—" He hesitated, looking inquiringly at his sister; then, as she nodded, he continued: "Would you like to go with us?"

"I don't mind if I do," Edgar responded condescendingly.

"You needn't if you don't care about it," Polly said quickly, "we can do quite well without you."

"Oh, I want to go with you," Edgar assured her; "I should like the walk, but I don't care about the primroses. I have heaps of flowers at home."

"I suppose you have," said Polly with a faint sigh, "but we have none, you know. The gardens at the Rookery must be looking lovely now with all the spring flowers in bloom; I remember last year you had a lot of daffodils—beauties!"

"So we have now; you ought to come and see them, Polly." There was a wistful expression in the little girl's countenance which somewhat touched her cousin, and he remembered what a long time had passed since she had paid a visit to his home. "Why don't you come?" he continued. "Mother would be very glad to see you, you know."

"Would she? I don't know so much about that," Polly responded bluntly, with a short laugh; "if Aunt Janie wanted to see me she'd invite me to the Rookery, I shouldn't think of going there otherwise."

There was an awkward pause in the conversation after this. The children were, by now, nearing the outskirts of the town, and coming to the clay works, which formed the chief industry of the neighbourhood. The high road adjoining the works had a row of labourers' cottages on either side, with small gardens in front.

"That's where our old servant, Sarah Glubb, lives," said Roger, indicating one of these dwellings; "and, look! There's Sarah herself in the doorway."

"Oh, I must speak to her for a minute!" cried Polly. "I know it was visiting-day at the hospital yesterday, so for certain she saw her husband then; I want to ask her how he is."

Sarah—a neat, pleasant-faced woman—stood with her baby in her arms. She smiled at the children as they approached, and they stood talking to her a short while—at least, Polly and Roger talked, whilst Edgar listened. As Polly had imagined, Sarah had been to see her husband on the preceding day, and had been cheered to find him much better.

"The nurse told me the doctor considers Caleb will be able to come home in about another fortnight," she said happily; "but I am afraid it will be some weeks longer before he will be strong enough to work in the clay pits," she added, her countenance clouding slightly.

"Does your good fairy still remember you, Sarah?" Polly questioned anxiously.

"Yes, miss," Sarah answered, a radiant smile driving the gloom from her face, "so perhaps she—or maybe it's he—will go on helping me till my man's able to work for me and the little ones again. I only wish I knew who it is that is being such a friend to me, that I do. God bless whoever it is, I say—aye, and He will."

"What did you mean about a good fairy, Polly?" questioned Edgar as soon as he and his cousins were out of Sarah's hearing. "There are no fairies nowadays."

"There's one who sends a present to Sarah every week," Polly responded gravely. "Isn't there, Roger?"

Roger nodded, and meeting each other's eyes the sister and brother laughed. Edgar looked vexed, for he had an idea his companions were poking fun at him, and he stood much on his dignity. However, Roger promptly explained that Polly had referred to an unknown person who had befriended Sarah by sending her a pound every week since her husband's accident. Edgar was much interested, and expressed great astonishment that the generous donor should desire to remain unknown, for, as he said, most people who gave anything away liked to be thanked.

They were leaving the clay works—deep pits where scores of men were at work digging clay or pumping up water—behind them, and ten minutes more walking brought them to the woods, which were carpeted with moss and primroses on this beautiful spring day. Polly's basket was soon filled with the pale, delicately-scented flowers; and then the three young people sat down to rest at the foot of a beech tree, and the little girl drew a good-sized package from a capacious pocket in her skirt, and proceeded to open it with an air of triumph.

"There, boys!" she exclaimed, as she revealed a large lump of home-made cake. "You didn't know I'd brought lunch with me, but aren't you glad? I'd have cut a bigger bit if I'd known Edgar was going to be with us. Where's your knife, Roger? Divide the cake into three slices, please."

"I'm jolly hungry," Roger announced, as he produced his pocket-knife and proceeded to do his sister's bidding. "I'm just ready for a snack."

"And yet you said you wouldn't want lunch when mother advised you to take some," Polly reminded him. "I knew better than that, for being out-of-doors always makes one very hungry. Come, Edgar, take your share!"

Accustomed though he was to far daintier fare, Edgar enjoyed his slice of cake, which proved most satisfying. It was very comfortable under the beech tree, the brown, swelling buds of which were bursting into leaf, and the young people spent a sociable half-hour, watching the squirrels in the boughs overhead, and talking confidentially. They discussed their elders, as children are so fond of doing, and Edgar informed his cousins how surprised his parents were that Cousin Becky was to make her home with them in Princess Street.

"Why are they so surprised?" asked Polly, greatly desirous to ascertain the reason.

"Because Cousin Becky is so poor. Mother said she could understand it better if she was rich and you could make something out of her, but what she is going to pay is so little. I think myself that Cousin Becky is very nice, and I should not mind having her to live with us at the Rookery. It is a great pity she has not more money. Father says you can do nothing without money."

This teaching was new to Polly and Roger, who had been taught a far different creed.

"I suppose you think your father knows everything," the former said, a trifle irascibly, "but I daresay other people are just as clever as he is. It must be very, very nice to have money," she proceeded, "but mother says there are greater blessings than riches, and if we haven't money to give away we can give what we have—our time, or kind words, or sympathy, that all counts with God. It's easy to give money if you've got it. I daresay Uncle John gives away a good bit, doesn't he?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," Edgar answered. "I never heard him say. I daresay he does, for he has plenty of money, you know."

"Yes, I know," returned Polly, nodding her head sagely, "and so've you, haven't you? You get a lot of pocket-money, don't you?"

"A shilling a week from father, besides what mother gives me off and on."

"So much as that? Do you spend it all on yourself? Oh!" she cried as her cousin nodded. "Fancy that! We get twopence, and Roger had only a penny a week before he went to school."

"Why don't you ask your father for more?" questioned Edgar thoughtlessly.

"Because he can't afford to give us more; he would if he could." Polly rose, and picked up her basket of primroses as she spoke. "I think it's time we started for home," she said, "for mother told us we were to be back by one o'clock."

Accordingly the children left the wood and retraced their footsteps along the high road, Polly carrying her basket very carefully, and looking admiringly at her flowers every now and then. Edgar gave his cousins a description of the handsomely illustrated copy of 'The Pilgrim's Progress' which his mother had procured for him; he seemed exceedingly pleased with it, and promised to show it to his companions one day.

They had nearly reached the town when they were overtaken by Mr. Marsh, who was being driven by a groom in a dog-cart. He had been to the clay works and was now on his way home.

"Well, young folks," he said good-humouredly as the groom, obeying his master's order, brought the dog-cart to a standstill, "have you been for a ramble in the country? All well at home, Polly? Yes. That's right. You're looking blooming yourself, child, with those bright eyes and those rosy cheeks. Edgar, you'd better jump up behind and return with me. Well, Roger, how are you?" he asked. His son climbed into the back seat of the vehicle as he spoke.

"Very well, thank you, Uncle John," Roger answered, lifting his frank eyes to meet his uncle's.

"You and your sister should come to the Rookery sometimes during the holidays," Mr. Marsh said kindly; "but, mind, I'll have no smoking. Remember that."

"I never do smoke, Uncle John," Roger returned earnestly.

"Tut, tut, that's not true. Hasn't Edgar told you that I found out what you and he had been doing the last time you were at the Rookery? I ought to have told your father, perhaps. I am sure he would not like you to smoke. You hope to grow into a fine, strong man, I suppose? You'll never be one if you smoke cigarettes at your age. You mark my words. Good-bye."

The dog-cart passed on, leaving Polly and Roger staring after it, the former filled with amazement, the latter crimson with indignation. Edgar waved his hand to them, but they did not respond to his salutation.

"What did Uncle John mean?" Polly demanded of her brother. "Have you really been smoking?"

"No, no! How can you think it for a minute!" was the reproachful response.

"But Uncle John evidently believes you have. He thought, too, that you told him a story."

"I saw he did." Roger looked utterly miserable. "I can't understand it," he said. "I have never smoked, indeed I haven't. You know I promised father I wouldn't."

"Uncle John spoke of the last time you were at the Rookery. Neither he nor Aunt Janie were at home then, were they?"

"No; Edgar and I spent the afternoon by ourselves. Oh, don't ask me any more about it," he proceeded imploringly as he saw another question trembling on his sister's lips. "Uncle John has made a mistake, but—" passionately—"he had no right to speak to me as he did."

"He did not speak unkindly, only as though he thought you had told him a story. No, you are not a story-teller, I know that well enough."

"Don't tell them at home what he said, Polly; mother and father would be so put out—promise you won't."

Polly hesitated; but her brother appeared so distressed that she at length, very reluctantly, gave the desired promise, feeling puzzled and uneasy. Why, since Roger had been wrongfully accused, did he not want the matter cleared up? It did not seem right to her that their uncle should be allowed to believe what was not true; and her heart was hot with indignation against him for holding such a bad opinion of her brother. Never for a moment did she doubt Roger's word herself. Long she puzzled over the matter, but she asked no more questions, and the remainder of the walk home passed in silence.

"I've enjoyed the morning, haven't you?" Roger said, as they turned the corner into Princess Street.

"Oh yes," the little girl assented, "and I was doubtful if we should when we met Edgar and he said he'd go with us; but I think he really has improved, he was very nice on the whole to-day. I wish," she added with a faint sigh, "oh, I do wish we had not seen Uncle John!"

CHAPTER X

BROUGHT TO BOOK

Edgar had heard the accusation his father had brought against Roger, and he had noted the crimson flush which had spread over the latter's countenance when his word had been disbelieved, and he was uneasily conscious that there would have to be a day of reckoning between his cousin and himself sooner or later. He knew he had been cowardly in allowing his father to think Roger had joined him in cigarette smoking, and he wished now he had not held his tongue upon the point.

"I must manage to square Roger, somehow," he thought, "but it won't be easy. I could see he was awfully angry that father didn't believe him; he's so very particular about telling the truth."

The two boys did not meet for several days, however; but one morning Edgar was sent by his mother with a note to Mrs. Trent, inviting Polly and Roger to spend the following afternoon at the Rookery. His heart beat fast and unevenly as he stood on the doorsteps of his relations' house in Princess Street and rang the bell, for he dreaded giving the explanation he knew Roger would be certain to demand from him; but, much to his relief of mind, when Louisa opened the door, she informed him that his young cousins had gone out with Miss Trent and only his aunt was at home. He was shown into the sitting-room, where Mrs. Trent came to him; and whilst she was reading his mother's note, he watched her, thinking how sweet and pretty she looked, for he always admired and liked Aunt Mary.

Mrs. Trent promptly accepted the invitation for her children which her sister-in-law's note contained, and she talked to the little boy for a short while; but he seemed in a hurry to leave, so she did not detain him long. The fact was, he was glad to have missed Roger, and wanted to get away before his cousins' return.

Now, it so happened that Roger, coming out of a shop with his sister and Cousin Becky, caught sight of Edgar, homeward bound, and pointed him out to his companions.

"I want to speak to him particularly," he said. "May I run and overtake him, Cousin Becky?"

"Do, my dear," she answered; "but Polly and I will not wait for you as we have several more errands to execute."

Accordingly, Roger went after Edgar; but he only kept him in sight and did not overtake him till he had left the town and turned into the suburban road which led to the Rookery, then he ran up to him, shouting: "Hi! Stop! Stop!"

Edgar started violently, for he had had no idea of the proximity of his cousin; he glanced around with a somewhat alarmed expression on his face as he said in a hurried tone:

"I've just come from Princess Street. You and Polly are to come to tea with me to-morrow."

"Who says so?" Roger inquired bluntly.

"Aunt Mary. I took a note to her from mother."

"You'll like to come, won't you?" And Edgar regarded the other more than a trifle anxiously.

"I don't know. Look here, Edgar! What did your father mean the other day by saying I smoked, and why didn't you speak up for me? Had you made out to him that I had been smoking cigarettes with you that afternoon I was at the Rookery, when he and Aunt Janie were away?"

"No, on my honour I had not," was the emphatic response.

"Then, what did he mean?" Roger demanded. "He believed I had been smoking. Did you know he thought so?"

"I—I—"

"Oh, speak out!" cried Roger, greatly irritated; "don't stammer like a baby!"

"Well, don't get angry, then. You needn't look at me so—so furiously. I've done nothing to injure you. It was like this. Father found out I'd been smoking; at first I wouldn't own to it, but afterwards I did, and he was awfully angry. But it was a Sunday, and mother stood up for me, so there wasn't nearly such a row as I'd expected." Edgar paused for a minute, then continued with heightened colour. "Of course, father imagined, as you had been with me and there were several cigarettes gone from the case—I'd taken them; I thought he wouldn't notice—that you'd been smoking, too, and—and—"

"And you didn't tell him I hadn't?"

"No-o-o," Edgar was obliged to admit, "I—I didn't tell him one way or the other."

"Why didn't you?" Roger was actually shaking with anger, the colour had fled from his cheeks, and his eyes were alight with passion.

"Because—because father would have been angrier if he'd known you hadn't smoked too," faltered Edgar. "Oh, Roger, I didn't tell a lie about it, I only held my tongue."

"And let Uncle John believe that I—that I—"

Roger's voice failed him, so intense was his indignation. He had been trying to keep his temper under control, but now it gained the mastery over him, and, flinging himself upon Edgar, almost choking with rage, he began to belabour him with his clenched fists. Edgar was no coward physically, whatever he was morally, and he was on the defensive in a moment. In a few minutes the two boys were engaged in a fierce fight, and, being equally matched as to height and weight, there is no saying how it might have terminated had not the sound of wheels warned the combatants to desist. Panting and dishevelled, they stood aside to allow the vehicle to pass; but, instead of doing so, it drew up, and, looking to see the reason, Roger was shocked to see his aunt's carriage, and his aunt herself in it with two lady visitors.

"Good gracious, boys!" cried Mrs. Marsh. "What is the meaning of this? Edgar, what has happened? Why, my darling, you are covered in dust, your clothes are torn, and —oh, surely you have not been fighting? Roger, you naughty boy—"

"I am not more naughty than Edgar," interrupted Roger, "not nearly so naughty if it comes to that, for I'm not a mean beast like he is." He was far too angry to pick his words.

"How dare you use such language," began Mrs. Marsh, looking surprised and shocked, for she had always considered her nephew a well-mannered little boy, but he broke in again:

"We've been fighting," he said passionately, "and I began it, and if you hadn't come up I'd have licked him. Of course you'll take his part, Aunt Janie, you always do, but he knows he deserves a good thrashing. I'll have nothing more to do with him, although he is my cousin, and I won't go near the Rookery again."

"I suppose you've quarrelled," said Mrs. Marsh, glancing from her visitors, who appeared highly entertained and evidently regarded the scene in the light of a joke, to her son's downcast countenance. "What have you fallen out about? How could you so far forget yourself, Edgar, as to fight in the road?"

"You mustn't blame him for that, Aunt Janie," said Roger quickly, "for I made him fight. I hit him first."

"But why?" questioned Mrs. Marsh, looking more and more mystified. "I don't understand. Oh, I hope neither of you is much hurt! And, oh dear—" with sudden alarm in her tone—"here comes your father, Edgar! Oh, John," she proceeded as her husband came up, "do find out what has happened to make the boys quarrel! They've been fighting."

"So I perceive," Mr. Marsh replied dryly; "you'd better drive on, my dear, and I'll see to the youngsters. Now," he said sternly, as the carriage passed on, "what have you two to say for yourselves? What is the meaning of all this? I thought you were good friends."

"Friends!" echoed Roger in accents of deep disgust. "He's been no friend to me, letting you believe I smoked with him when I never even touched the cigarettes. I said I wouldn't tell he'd been smoking—it was no business of mine—and I didn't, but I never thought he'd treat me so shabbily. I've finished with him now," he continued bitterly, as he brushed down his clothes with his hands and picked up his cap from the dusty road, "and I'll never—"

"Stop!" commanded Mr. Marsh, "Don't make rash vows, Roger. Do you mean to assert that you did not smoke with Edgar?"

"I did not," Roger answered firmly. "Ask him before me, and he'll tell you the truth."

"What have you to say, Edgar?" Mr. Marsh looked anxiously at his son.

"Roger did not smoke with me, father," was the low-spoken response. "I never said so."

"But you permitted me to think so. I am ashamed of you, Edgar. Roger, my boy, I owe you an apology for doubting your word, you must forgive me that I did not accept it," and Mr. Marsh laid his hand kindly on his nephew's shoulder as he spoke. "Edgar owes you an apology, too, for his cowardly and ungenerous treatment of you," he supplemented.

"Oh, it's all right, Uncle John, so long as you don't believe I told you a lie," Roger said hurriedly. "I'll settle it with Edgar another day."

"No, no, settle it now, and have done with it. I am quite satisfied you told me the truth," and Mr. Marsh sighed as he glanced at his son, who did not dare lift his shamed eyes from the ground, though he murmured a few words of apology to his cousin.

After that, Mr. Marsh insisted that the two boys should shake hands, which they did, reluctantly on Roger's part; and then he seized Edgar by the arm, and marched him home in silence. Arrived at the Rookery, Mr. Marsh took his son into the study, where Mrs. Marsh joined them, anxious to learn the cause of the boys' quarrel. In a few words Mr. Marsh explained everything to her; but when she would have tried to excuse Edgar's conduct, he would not allow her to do so. "There is no excuse for him," he said, "and he knows it. He has behaved in a false, cowardly fashion towards his cousin, and I am heartily ashamed of him."

"I—I have been very unhappy about it," faltered Edgar; and there was no doubt that he spoke the truth, for since the morning he had gone primrose gathering with Polly and Roger his conscience had continually pricked him. "And—and I don't believe Roger will ever forgive me; he said he would never come to the Rookery again, and he's sure to keep his word."

"What explanation shall I give our visitors as to the cause of the disgraceful scene in the road?" asked Mrs. Marsh with a sigh.

"Tell them the truth—don't beat about the bush," advised her husband. "Say Edgar was the one in fault."

"It is most unfortunate this has occurred, for I have asked Polly and Roger to spend the afternoon here to-morrow," she said regretfully. "Are they coming, Edgar?"

"Aunt Mary promised they should come, mother, but I don't suppose they will now."

"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Marsh. "I will speak to their father and tell him what has happened, and he will set things right. Roger has a real grievance and has cause to be indignant, but I want him and Edgar to be friends. Your brother is as straight as a line, Janie, and it seems his son is the same. Now go to your visitors, my dear; I have a few words to say to Edgar alone."

It astonished Edgar to see how deeply his conduct had affected Mr. Marsh, who seemed more grieved than angry. That touched the little boy, who was really much attached to the father who had always been so indulgent to him, and he promised that he really would endeavour to act as well as speak truly in the future. When, ten minutes later, he left the study and ran upstairs to his bedroom to prepare for luncheon—which, under the circumstances would be somewhat of an ordeal that day—his eyes were blind with tears, and his father's parting words rang again and again in his ears:

"Be true, my boy, whatever happens be true, and then I shall be able to feel confidence in you. Don't ever again give me occasion to be ashamed of my son."

CHAPTER XI

IN THE CLOCK CASE

Roger had quite made up his mind that nothing should induce him to enter the doors of his cousin's home again; and after Mr. Marsh and Edgar had left him, he hurried back to Princess Street, his heart full of rage, and took his family into his confidence. Everyone agreed with him that he had been treated shabbily, and Polly was loud in her declamations against Edgar. It was Mrs. Trent who tried to soothe the boy's angry mood, and pointed out to him that the present occasion was an opportunity for showing a magnanimous spirit.

"You don't mean to say you will make me go to the Rookery to-morrow, do you, mother?" Roger asked hotly.

"No, dear, certainly not," she answered. "You shall do as you please, but—"

"Then I shan't go," he broke in, "so that's settled."

"I shan't go, either," declared Polly.

"You interrupted me in the midst of my sentence, Roger," Mrs. Trent told the little boy in a tone of gentle reproof. "I was going to say that you shall do as you please, but that by to-morrow I trust you may see things in a different light. Edgar has treated you badly, that I grant, but I hope you will forgive him, especially as you say he offered you an apology, and let him see, by going to the Rookery, that you do not bear malice in heart."

Roger made no response but when, that evening, his father said his uncle had sent a message to him to the effect that he should expect to see him on the following day, he realised that he would have to overlook his cousin's cowardly conduct and consent to be his guest. "I daresay Edgar is really sorry, and if so I suppose I ought to forgive him," he remarked to Polly. "And, though I really don't want to go to the Rookery, Aunt Janie always gives us a very good tea; so, all things considered, perhaps we'd better go."

"Very well," agreed his sister, "I daresay you're right. I don't care so much about the tea, but I should like to see the gardens and the greenhouses."

"And the horses," supplemented Roger with a brightening face.

So the following afternoon found Polly and Roger the guests of their cousin at the Rookery. There was unwonted shyness in Edgar's manner as he met them in the hall and escorted them into the drawing-room to speak to his mother, and he glanced askance at a bruise beneath Roger's right eye, which he knew had been caused by his fist whilst Polly and Roger both felt the awkwardness of the situation.

Mrs. Marsh greeted her little niece and nephew very cordially, and introduced them to her friends—two fashionably dressed ladies; she inquired for all at home, and then told them they might do whatever they liked to amuse themselves as long as they did not get into mischief. After that she dismissed them, and Edgar led the way upstairs to the large room which had been his nursery, where he still kept all his most treasured belongings, including several mechanical toys and a big rocking-horse which had always been the envy of his cousins. Edgar was on his best behaviour and tried to make the time pass pleasantly for his visitors. He showed them his 'Pilgrim's Progress' and was gratified by their admiration of its illustrations, which were indeed very fine.

"It's the best mother could get for money," he informed them with great satisfaction. "I expect it's a much better book than yours, isn't it?"

"Oh yes!" Polly admitted readily; "but I like our old book best."

All sense of awkwardness had died away now, and the three children were on the best of terms with each other. By-and-by Edgar suggested a game of hide-and-seek.

"We can hide anywhere in the house we like," he said, "and the nursery shall be 'home.' Which of us shall hide first?"

"Oh, let me!" cried Polly eagerly.

"Very well," the boys agreed, and Roger added, "I don't suppose we shall be long finding you."

"Don't be too sure of that," she retorted. "How long will you give me to find a hiding-place?"

"Five minutes," Edgar replied, "and no longer, mind." Accordingly the little girl left the boys in the schoolroom, and, after shutting the door behind her, stole softly downstairs. She peeped into the dining-room, but there seemed no hiding-place there, unless she got behind a curtain, which of course would be searched immediately. "I wish I could think of some really good place," she murmured, as she stood in the centre of the hall hesitating which way to turn. "Perhaps I'd better go up in the attics, there are several lumber rooms, I know, but the boys will be certain to search them carefully."

Then suddenly a brilliant idea flashed through her mind, and her face broke into smiles. She thought she knew one place where she could conceal herself where the boys would never dream of looking for her, but she must be quick and not waste time or the five minutes' grace allowed her would be up before she had safely secreted herself.

At one side of the hall was a baize-covered swing door leading into a passage, at the end of which Mr. Marsh's study was situated. Polly pushed open the swing door, and a minute later she stood on the threshold of the study. There was nobody in the room, and closing the door she turned her attention to the tall clock, which, as has already been said, stood against the wall near the writing-table. With fingers trembling with eagerness, the little girl opened the door of the oak case of the clock and peeped inside.

"There's heaps of room for me," she reflected triumphantly as she scrutinised the swinging pendulum and the heavy iron weights of the old time-piece. "It will be a splendid hiding-place. I am sure I can get in, and if I do stop the clock I can easily set it going again. The boys will never think of looking for me here. But I must hurry."

It was not so easy to get into the case of the clock as she had anticipated it would be, for the door was nearly two feet from the ground, but she succeeded in effecting the feat; and, once inside, she found she could stand upright, though she was obliged to keep in one position owing to the narrowness of the case. She laughed softly to herself as she stood there, listening, ready to shut the door of her hiding-place the minute she should hear sounds of anyone approaching the room. Thus she waited several minutes; but, before very long, the silence was broken by Edgar's voice in the passage, saying:

"I don't suppose she's in the study, but we'll have a look. I expect she's upstairs in the attics somewhere. We must be sharp or she'll manage to get 'home.'"

Polly smiled to herself and hastily drew the door of the clock case close. It shut with a "click," and she was in complete darkness. She heard the boys making a hasty search of the room, then followed the sound of a door slammed, retreating footsteps, and after that complete silence. The searchers had never thought of looking inside the case of the old clock.

"What a famous joke!" thought Polly delightedly. "Now, whilst they're in the attics I'll slip back to the schoolroom. I shall be on the laughing side this time."

But she was not so sanguine on that point when, having allowed a few minutes to elapse, she tried to push open the door of her hiding-place, for to her dismay it would not move. Then it dawned upon her that she had made herself a prisoner. Evidently the clock case could only be opened from the outside.

At first the little girl was more vexed than startled at her situation as she reflected that her cousin and brother would make merry over it, and it was not until she had shouted again and again and, knocked loudly, without bringing anyone to her assistance, that she began to experience a distinct sense of alarm; but even then she was not very frightened, for she felt certain her uncle would visit his study on his return from business, he would doubtless have letters to write, so she consoled herself with the hope that she would not be a prisoner very long.

The minutes dragged slowly on, and Polly began to wonder if there were spiders in the clock, or perhaps earwigs—she had a great horror of earwigs. She had noticed that the inside of the case was very dusty, as though it might harbour all sorts of creepy, crawly things; and suddenly she thought she felt something on her neck, and uttered a cry of fright. It proved to be only her imagination, however.

"Oh, this is terrible!" she exclaimed, now thoroughly alarmed. "I'm getting so hot, I believe I shall be suffocated. Oh, will nobody come to let me out! Roger! Roger!" And she beat against the door of the clock case with her hand; then listened, but not a sound was to be heard.

"I expect the boys have given up looking for me and are having tea," she thought miserably, with a pang of self-pity, and she shed a few tears, for she was beginning to feel hungry, and thirsty too. She pushed desperately against her prison, but the old oaken case was firmly secured to the wall, and she could not move it though she exerted all her strength; then she tried to change her position, for she was growing cramped, but there was not room for her to do so. Supposing, after all, no one came into the room that night and she had to remain there till morning, how awful that would be; and the worst of it was, she could not tell how time was passing, shut up there in the dark. It appeared to poor Polly that she had already been imprisoned for hours.

Meanwhile, Roger and Edgar were searching the house from attic to basement; and it was not until tea-time that they ceased their quest. Mrs. Marsh had driven out with her visitors, so the boys had their tea alone in the dining-room, for, as Edgar remarked, it was no good waiting for Polly to turn up, she could have her tea when she chose to appear.

"I can't think where she can be," Roger said, a trifle uneasily, when, after tea, he and his cousin strolled out into the garden. "I suppose nothing can have happened to her?"

"What could happen to her?" questioned Edgar. "It's stupid of her to keep away like this." Then, as they encountered a gardener, he asked him if he had seen Polly anywhere about the grounds, only to receive a decided reply in the negative.

About six o'clock Mrs. Marsh and her friends returned from their drive, and were greatly astonished to hear of the little girl's disappearance; and then Mr. Marsh arrived upon the scene and was informed that his niece was missing.

"The little monkey is hiding to cause a sensation," he said with a smile. "Why, Roger, you appear alarmed! That's foolish."

"Polly would not stay away at tea-time if she could help it," the little boy responded gravely. "I know she must be hungry, because we had dinner early. Suppose she should be shut up somewhere unable to get out—in, a chest, perhaps, like the bride in 'The Mistletoe Bough'?"

Everyone laughed at this suggestion; it seemed so very improbable.

"Oh, she'll turn up presently, never fear," said Mr. Marsh consolingly. "I shouldn't look for her any further. I expect she's laughing in her sleeve at you all the while." He had been standing, talking, in the hall, and now he pushed open the baize-covered swing door to go to his study. "You boys can come and look at my stamps and coins if you like," he proceeded. "I don't think Roger has ever seen them. Good gracious! What on earth is that? Why, someone's calling for help!" And he hurried down the passage, followed by the boys, and entered the study.

"Oh!" wailed a muffled-sounding, frightened voice, though no one was to be seen. "Come quickly! Oh, please do come and let me out!"

CHAPTER XII

COUSIN BECKY TELLS A SECRET

"Where can the child be?"

Mr. Marsh glanced around the room in bewilderment as he put the question; then, a smile of intense amusement broke across his countenance as there came in answer a series of sharp knocks from the interior of the clock case. The boys burst out laughing and rushed forward to release the prisoner, who stood revealed, a moment later, with crimson cheeks, and eyes which shone through a mist of tears.

"Why didn't you come before?" she demanded, looking reproachfully at her brother and her cousin. "You should have looked for me till you found me, you cruel, cruel, boys!"

"Oh, I say, Polly, you needn't round on us like that," remonstrated Edgar. "We've done nothing. Couldn't you get out?"

"No. Do you think I should have stayed here so long if I could have helped it? I couldn't open the door from the inside, and—and oh, I thought I should be suffocated! Help me out, one of you, please; I'm so stiff I can scarcely move."

Mr. Marsh put the boys aside and lifted the little girl out of the clock case. He was very kind, brushed the dust from her frock, and said he hoped she had not been very frightened. Polly looked at him somewhat shyly—she had never seen much of her uncle—and her lips quivered. She felt shaky and unnerved; but she was not going to acknowledge how alarmed she had been, so she made answer evasively—

"There was nothing to be frightened at really, only—only I thought there might be spiders and earwigs there, and it seemed such a long, long time to wait."

"Well, I'm glad we've found you at last," remarked Roger, "for it's getting late."

"What time is it?" asked Polly. "I'm afraid I stopped the clock," she said in an apologetic tone to her uncle, "but I don't think it's hurt; there wasn't room for the pendulum to swing when I was in the case."

"Oh, I don't suppose it's hurt," he responded. "I will set it going presently."

He took out his watch and looked at it.

"It's nearly seven," he said.

"Then it's time for us to go home," sighed Polly dolefully, "and—and I haven't had any tea."

"Dear me, no, of course not!" exclaimed her uncle, as, overcome with self-pity, the little girl's tears began to flow. "Edgar, call your mother and tell her Polly's found. How long were you shut up in the clock case, my dear?" he asked commiseratingly as his son went to do his bidding.

"I don't know," she answered, "ages and ages!"

"About three hours," said Roger after some moments' reflection as his uncle looked at him inquiringly.

"So long as that!" exclaimed Mr. Marsh. "Poor child, poor little girl! Never mind, Polly, you'll feel better after you've had tea. Cheer up, my dear."

A few minutes later Mrs. Marsh appeared upon the scene and took possession of her niece. She was very kind and led her upstairs to her own room, where Polly bathed the tear stains from her hot cheeks and brushed her hair, after which she accompanied her aunt downstairs and made an excellent tea. Then Mr. Marsh entered the room followed by the boys, and handed her a beautiful bunch of hot-house flowers to take home with her.

"Oh, thank you, Uncle John!" cried the little girl gratefully. "They are lovely! Oh, how stupid I was to shut myself up in the clock case like that, when I might have had such a nice time!"

"Never mind," said Mr. Marsh good-naturedly; "you shall come again, eh, Janie?" he asked, appealing to his wife.

"Of course," she agreed. "How would you like to spend a day with me when my visitors are gone, Polly?"

"Alone?" questioned the little girl dubiously. Then, as Mrs. Marsh smilingly assented, she inquired impulsively, "Should I go for a drive with you in your carriage, Aunt Janie?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Oh, I should like that! I never drove in a carriage with a pair of horses in my life. But—" she paused for a moment in hesitation, then added, "but I think, if you don't mind, I would rather you invited mother instead."

"Why?" queried Mrs. Marsh, very surprised.

"Because it would be such a treat for mother to have a drive. You know she is not very strong, and she cannot walk far because she so soon gets tired."

"But I thought your mother did not care about going out," Mrs. Marsh observed. "She is always such a home bird. I am sure I have often advised her to go out more."

"Well, you see, she has a good bit of house work to do, and after that she's very tired, and that's why she stays at home," Polly explained in a matter-of-fact tone. "I daresay you would be tired yourself, Aunt Janie, if you had to do all the things mother does."

"I daresay. And now Cousin Becky has taken up her abode with you your poor mother must be busier than ever," Mrs. Marsh remarked with a slight frown, and a note of dissatisfaction in her voice.

"Oh no!" Polly responded quickly. "There you're quite wrong, Aunt Janie. Cousin Becky helps mother a great deal in the house, she doesn't make any extra work."

"I'm glad to hear it. Well, Polly, remember it is understood that you are to come and spend a day with me soon, and I will take you for a nice long drive in the country."

"Thank you, Aunt Janie," the little girl replied earnestly and gratefully, her face alight with a pleased smile.

"Polly, we ought to be going," said Roger. "You know mother said we were not to stay to be in the way about dinner-time, and it's past half-past seven."

"Dinner is not till eight to-night as we have several expected visitors," Mrs. Marsh said as she kissed her little niece and nephew good-bye, preparatory to going upstairs to dress.

"Fancy not having dinner till nearly supper-time!" cried Polly, opening her eyes very wide. "I don't think I should like that!"

"Come, Polly," whispered her brother as she seemed disposed to linger, "Uncle John's going to send us home in the dog-cart, and it's waiting at the front door."

"Oh, how splendid!" exclaimed Polly. "How kind of you, Uncle John!"

Roger was no less delighted than his sister at the prospect of the drive home. He took his place on the back seat of the vehicle, whilst Polly occupied the seat by the groom in front, her bunch of flowers in her lap; and the spirited horse between the shafts set off at a swinging pace. Polly, who had regained her usual spirits by this time, sat bolt upright, feeling herself a person of some importance to be thus driven home in state, and amused herself on the way by bowing gravely and impressively to various pedestrians, many of whom she only knew very slightly. As they turned the corner of Princess Street, the little girl caught sight of her mother and Cousin Becky at the sitting-room window. She waved her hand to them, and smiled and nodded as the dog-cart drew up.

"Wait a minute, missie," advised the groom as Polly made a movement to get down, "and I'll help you."

"Oh, you needn't trouble, thank you," she responded hastily, as she noticed her brother was already on the pavement, "I can manage quite well by myself."

Forthwith she rose from the seat and turned round to descend backwards, holding to the dog-cart with one hand, whilst with the other she grasped her flowers; but her legs proved not quite long enough to reach the step of the carriage, and the horse suddenly moving, she lost her balance and was flung into the gutter. She picked herself up immediately, however, and, declaring herself unhurt, went hurriedly into the house, still grasping her flowers, which she was glad to see were but little injured, and very conscious that her undignified descent from the carriage had been witnessed by several pairs of eyes from neighbouring windows.

"Oh, Polly dear, are you hurt?" cried Mrs. Trent, meeting her little daughter at the front door and drawing her into the sitting-room. She regarded her with some anxiety as she spoke.

"No," Polly answered promptly, "that is, not much. I've knocked my elbow, but it's nothing. The stupid horse moved."

"You should have let the groom help you down, my dear."

"He wanted to but she wouldn't allow him," Roger said, overhearing his mother's remark as he came into the room.

"Have you had a pleasant afternoon?" inquired Cousin Becky, after she and Mrs. Trent had admired the bunch of beautiful flowers.

"Polly had a very pleasant afternoon," Roger replied, laughing, "and where do you think she spent it? Why, shut up in a clock!" And he proceeded to tell the tale of his sister's misadventure, which was heard with considerable amusement.

"It's all very fine to laugh," Polly said, somewhat tearfully, "but it was a terribly long while to be shut up in the dark with spiders and earwigs, when I might have been having such a fine time, too! And I did get so hungry! Uncle John was very kind, and Aunt Janie made me eat a big tea, afterwards; I think they were really sorry for me, they didn't laugh at me like the boys."

As the little girl had expected, she was not allowed to forget that afternoon's adventure, for it was far too good a joke to be easily dropped; but she was endowed with a sense of humour, and did not much mind having the laugh turned against herself.

In the course of a few days Roger returned to school and a short while later, Polly learnt that Mrs. Marsh's visitors had left the Rookery, whereupon she began to speculate when she would be invited to spend the day with her aunt which that lady had mentioned. But the looked-for invitation did not arrive, and Polly was, at length, reluctantly obliged to conclude that it was not coming at all.

"Aunt Janie could not have really intended to ask me," she thought bitterly, "she cannot have forgotten what she said. She is very, very unkind."

She did not mention her disappointment to her mother, but she spoke of it to Cousin Becky, who listened and sympathised with her.

"Aunt Janie's a nasty, selfish thing!" cried Polly hotly.

"My dear, my dear—" began Cousin Becky expostulatingly, but the indignant little girl continued in the same vehement tone—

"She is, Cousin Becky. I saw her driving by herself in the town yesterday, and—and if you had a nice carriage with plenty of room in it, wouldn't you want to give drives to people who never hardly have any fun? I know you would, and so would mother, or anyone who wasn't dreadfully selfish!"

"My dear, your aunt does not think. I am sure she never guesses how much you have set your heart on driving with her—"

"No, and she doesn't care!" broke in Polly passionately. "Oh, how I should like to be rich! It's miserable being poor."

"Do you want money so much, Polly?" the old lady questioned. "Tell me what you would do if you had a lot of money."

"Oh, I'd do heaps of things! I'd give some to father, first of all, because he lost all his, you know; and then I'd buy some new gowns for mother—pretty ones, like Aunt Jane's; and Roger should have more pocket-money—he gets so much less than most of the Grammar School boys; and we'd all go away by the sea for a holiday—that would be best of all! Uncle John and Aunt Janie and Edgar go to the sea-side every year, but we never do; and last year, when mother was poorly, the doctor said a thorough change would do her more real good than anything, but she couldn't have it. Father was so sorry about it; and he wanted to tell Aunt Janie what the doctor said, but mother wouldn't let him."

"Polly, can you keep a secret?" asked Cousin Becky.

"Oh yes, I am sure I can, though I never tried," was the confident response.

"Well, then I will tell you one but you must keep it quite to yourself, mind. Will you promise?"

"Yes; I won't tell anyone—not even mother."

"No, not even your mother." There was a slight flush on Cousin Becky's cheeks, and a smile hovered around her lips and shone in her eyes. "A little bird has told me that very likely—most likely, indeed—there will be a holiday for you all this year."

"What!" Polly could scarcely credit that she had heard aright. "You don't—you can't mean it!"

"Yes, I do, my dear. That's my secret. Mind you don't let it go any further. And you mustn't ask me any questions. Well, just one then."

"Are you sure the little bird you spoke of knows?" Polly inquired incredulously.

"Quite sure."

"I don't see how it's going to be managed—a holiday, I mean. But, oh, it would be grand! Oh, Cousin Becky, do tell me!"

"No, I can tell you no more," Cousin Becky interposed, laughing. "Remember to keep my secret, dear."

"Oh, I will," was the earnest assurance; "but it seems too good to be true—too altogether wonderful. I cannot think how you should know, but I am so glad you have told me. I don't in the least mind that Aunt Janie has forgotten to invite me to spend a day with her now—I suppose, after all, she must have forgotten, I don't really think she would mean to be unkind."

Cousin Becky did not think so either. In truth, Mrs. Marsh had allowed the promised invitation to slip her memory; and she would have been considerably surprised, and more than a little sorry, had she known the disappointment she had caused.

CHAPTER XIII

THE CALAIS NOBLE

"ROGER, come here, I want you a minute."

The scene was the playground at the back of the Beaworthy Grammar School, one fine June morning after school hours, where a few of the day scholars, including Roger Trent and his cousin, lingered talking to the boarders before going home to dinner. Roger had been on the point of leaving when Edgar, who had been holding a conversation with a big boy called Cole, the son of a lawyer in the town, called to him imperatively, and he turned back and inquired:

"Well, what is it?"

"I want you to tell Cole that I haven't been story-telling as he seems to think I have," Edgar said, with a somewhat resentful glance at his companion. His colour was heightened, and he appeared annoyed.

"He's collecting coins," he proceeded to explain, "and he won't believe that I've a lot of valuable ones at home, or that I know anything about them. You've seen my coins, Roger, haven't you?"

"Yes," Roger assented. "It's quite true that my cousin has a very fine collection," he said, addressing the elder boy who still looked incredulous. "I've seen his coins—such a lot of them, gold, silver, and bronze; some are very old."

"Marsh says he has a Calais Noble," Cole remarked doubtfully. "I can hardly believe that, for it's an exceedingly rare coin."

"What is a Calais Noble like?" asked Roger.

"Don't you remember my pointing it out to you?" said Edgar eagerly. "Oh, you must, surely! There's a ship on it—I remember so well your noticing the flag at the stern."

"Oh yes, of course, and you said your father bought it for you for five pounds, which was very cheap!" Roger exclaimed, recalling the coin in question to his recollection.

"I should like to see it," Cole said sceptically. "You might bring it to school and show it to me, Marsh."

"I'm afraid I couldn't do that," was the hesitating reply.

"Why not?" questioned the big boy.

"Because if—if—" Edgar paused, appearing a trifle confused. He had represented to Cole, as he had done to his cousin, that his father's collection of coins was his own, and now he found himself in a difficulty. "Oh, well," he proceeded hurriedly, "perhaps I will bring the Calais Noble for you to see, but it's very valuable and—and—"

"I shan't believe you have it unless I see it," Cole interrupted rather impatiently, "but you can do as you like, of course. I'd give a good bit to own one myself."

"Oh, Edgar has it right enough, Cole," Roger declared. "I remember it quite well now, but I got muddled looking at such a lot of coins."

"Seeing's believing," observed Cole sarcastically as he moved away.

Edgar was irritated by the knowledge that his big school-fellow had not accepted his word, and he went home with the fixed determination of getting possession of the Calais Noble on the first opportunity which presented itself for his doing so, but it was some days before that opportunity came; and as he was certain his father would never give him permission to take the coin to school, he decided not to speak to him upon the matter. At length, however, there arrived an afternoon when he brought the Calais Noble to school and proudly exhibited it to Cole and several other of his school-fellows. Cole, who owned no coin so old and rare in his collection, admired it greatly and was quite apologetic in his manner to Edgar.

"Take care of it, youngster," he advised, as, after a long and careful examination of the coin, he returned it to the little boy. "I don't think you ought to carry it loose in your pocket, you'd never get another if you lost that one. You're a lucky chap to have it."

"Oh, I'll take care of it, never fear!" Edgar replied. "I know it's valuable. I hope you believe now, Cole, that I really do understand something about coins."

"Yes; and I'm sorry I doubted your word when you told me you had a Calais Noble," said Cole deprecatingly. "I thought you were on the brag, and I admit I didn't believe you had the coin to show."

Edgar was walking home from school, a short while later, in a decidedly exultant mood when his cousin overtook him. Roger was looking unusually solemn, and his first words gave the clue to the reason.

"Edgar, why did you deceive me about those coins?" he asked in a tone of deep reproach.

"Deceive you? I don't know what you mean," was the untruthful response.

"Oh yes, you do! You made out to me—as you did to Cole, too—that all those coins you showed me belong to you, and they don't—they belong to your father."

"Well, that's the same thing," declared Edgar, determined to put a bold face on the matter.

"How can it be the same thing? You know it isn't."

"It is. Everything of father's will be mine someday."

"Someday's not now. You deceived me, and you deceived Cole; but I've found you out, and he hasn't."

"Oh, you needn't think I'm going to tell him, for I'm not! Father says you had no right to show me the coins when Uncle John wasn't there. I wouldn't have looked at them if I'd known that. The stamps aren't yours, either. I was foolish to believe they were."

"Look here, Roger, don't you tell Uncle Martin I took that Calais Noble to school; do you hear?"

"Why not?"

"Because he might mention it to father, and there'd be a fuss. You don't want to make mischief, I'm sure. I've done no harm, and I'll put the Noble back in its place, in the cabinet, immediately I get home, and I won't touch any of the coins again without father's permission. Promise you won't tell Uncle Martin."

"Well, I won't. It's nothing to do with me. But why can't you be straight, Edgar? Why did you want to pretend the coins and the stamps were yours? Just to show off, I suppose. It was as bad as telling a lie, you know. That's what I can't understand about you—why you won't keep to the truth—" and Roger regarded his companion with a very puzzled expression in his honest, grey eyes.

"I haven't told a fib for ages," Edgar said in a shamed tone, "not since that Sunday when I said I hadn't been smoking when I had. I don't think there's much harm in pretending."

"Oh, but there is! It's making people believe what isn't true," Roger said earnestly. "I wish you wouldn't do it, because, besides its being wrong, one never knows when to believe you or not."

Edgar thought over all his cousin had said after he had parted from him, and wished he had never pretended the coins were his own. He was growing to like Roger more and more, and was wishful to stand well in his estimation; he admired him for the very qualities he lacked himself—truth and unselfishness. Roger was a great favourite at school with both the masters and the boys, for, though he was certainly hot-tempered, he was not unforgiving, as Edgar had proved, and he was good-natured and obliging; whereas, his cousin—who had plenty of pocket-money and was known to be the son of the richest merchant in Beaworthy—was not nearly so well liked, simply because he always tried to please himself first and had never been known to put himself out of the way for anybody. It was a mark in Edgar's favour, however, that he was not jealous of Roger's popularity. When the cousins had first been thrown together at school, the rich man's son had been inclined to patronise his poor relation, but he never tried to do so now—perhaps because he was beginning to recognise his own inferiority.

Immediately on his arrival at the Rookery, Edgar hastened to the study, but to his disappointment he found his father there writing letters.

"Well, my son, what do you want?" Mr. Marsh inquired, glancing around sharply, for he was undesirous of interruption.

"Nothing, father."

"Well, then, run away. I'm busy."

Edgar needed no second bidding; but he was sorry he could not then replace the Calais Noble in the cabinet, for the fact of its being in his possession weighed upon his mind. After he had had tea he went to the nursery, where he usually prepared his lessons, and set to work to learn them; but whilst in the midst of that task his attention was diverted by voices in the garden, and, going to the window, he saw his father join his mother on a garden seat under a laburnum tree at a short distance from the house. Now was the time to return the Calais Noble, he thought, for Mr. Marsh had no doubt left his keys in the study—he was never very careful of them. Reflecting thus, Edgar thrust his hand into the depths of his trousers pocket where he had put the coin, but, to his astonishment and alarm, he could not feel it.

Hastily he turned out the contents of his pocket—a pen-knife, an end of pencil, a piece of string, and the sticky remains of a packet of caramels—but the Calais Noble was gone.

"I can't have lost it!" he gasped. "Yes, I have—I must have! Oh, what shall I do? It's really, really gone!"

It seemed useless to seek it, but he did so, searching the schoolroom and the dining-room where he had had his tea, in vain.

"I must have lost it on my way home," he groaned, "but I dare not tell father, he would be so dreadfully angry with me. Perhaps I dropped it in the schoolroom but, no, I'm sure I didn't, for I showed it to Cole in the playground, and I didn't take it out of my pocket after that."

Edgar, as may easily be imagined, spent the remainder of the evening in a most miserable frame of mind; and he subsequently passed a restless night, disturbed by distressing dreams. He dared not mention his loss to anyone, and kept it a secret to himself, though he knew full well that he ought to tell his father.

"He set such store on the Calais Noble," he thought unhappily. "I've often heard him say what difficulty he had to get it, and, oh, I can't tell him, I can't! But I do wonder what will happen when he finds it's gone. He mayn't find it out for a long, long time, but sooner or later he will." Conscience prompted him to speak out and confess the truth to his father; but cowardice bade him hold his tongue, and he was so little in the habit of facing any unpleasantness that he allowed cowardice to prevail.

CHAPTER XIV

MR. MARSH DISCOVERS HIS LOSS

"EDGAR, dear, your father wants you," said Mrs. Marsh, meeting her son at the front door one afternoon on his return from school a few days after he had lost the Calais Noble. "He's in the study, and he's so put out because he's missed some coin or other. He says you showed his coins to Roger, and he's displeased at that—not that he minds Roger having seen the coins, but because you had no right to meddle with his keys as you must have done. I tell him he should not leave his keys where everyone can get at them; but, all the same, you ought not to have touched them, my dear. You'd better go to him at once."

Edgar obeyed in fear and trembling. He found his father seated before the cabinet which held his coins, looking disturbed and perplexed.

"You want me, father?" the little boy said, in a faltering tone.

"Yes. Have you been meddling with my coins?" Mr. Marsh asked sharply.

"I showed them to Roger that time—you know, father, when he and I were here alone. I didn't mean any harm. I found your keys on the writing-table. I didn't think you'd mind Roger's seeing the coins—and the stamps."

Mr. Marsh was pleased with this apparently frank response, and his next question was put in a less irascible manner.

"Did you notice the Calais Noble when you and Roger were looking at the coins?" he inquired.

"Yes, father."

"Ah, then it was safe up to that time! Well, now, I cannot find it anywhere. You are sure it was here?"

"Yes," Edgar answered positively, "I am quite sure, because Roger noticed the flag at the stern of the ship, and he was so surprised when I told him the worth of the coin. He said he would soon sell it if it was his."

"Oh, indeed!"

Mr. Marsh looked thoughtful, and Edgar regarded him with an anxious scrutiny. There was a brief silence at length the former said: "Well, evidently the coin is gone. I fear it must have been stolen."

"Oh, no, no!" the little boy cried vehemently. "Who would steal it, father?"

"Ah, that's a question that I cannot answer. It's a puzzling business which I do not pretend to understand; but one fact is indisputable, the Calais Noble has disappeared, and someone must have taken it. I have been careless in leaving my keys about, so I cannot hold myself blameless in the matter; but I thought everyone in this house honest. Your uncle told me you had exhibited my collections of coins and stamps to Roger; he mentioned it because it struck him that I was unwise not to keep my valuables in greater security. I am sure I wish heartily I had done so. You had no right meddling with my belongings, Edgar, but I am glad that you did not quibble when I taxed you with having done so; if you had prevaricated you would have made me angry indeed, but you did not, and I am pleased that you at once admitted the truth. By the way, do not mention to anyone that the Calais Noble is missing; your mother knows it, but I shall ask her not to speak of it to outsiders."

"Very well, father," Edgar answered, surprised beyond measure that his father was taking his loss so quietly. He had blushed—Mr. Marsh had thought with pleasure—when he had been commended for admitting the truth. "Perhaps—perhaps the Calais Noble will turn up again," he suggested.

Mr. Marsh shook his head doubtfully, he did not think that very likely. He had his suspicion as to what had become of the coin, but he was not going to confide it to his son. He was feeling very troubled, and the expression of his face was exceedingly grave. One more question he put to Edgar before dismissing him.

"Was Roger interested in my coins?" he asked.

"Oh yes!" Edgar replied. "He didn't think so much of them, though, before I told him what they were worth, then he was simply astounded. You know, father, Roger doesn't get much money to spend—very little indeed, really—and he thinks a great deal of money in a way."

"In a way?" Mr. Marsh echoed inquiringly.

"Yes, he's always saying what he would do if he was rich."

"Oh, is he? Well—you may go now."

The little boy left the study gladly, and went upstairs in a very relieved state of mind. Not until some time afterwards did he reflect how cowardly he had been not to confess he had taken the Calais Noble to school and inadvertently lost it; at present, he congratulated himself that he had got over the interview with his father so successfully. Why, he had not even been asked if he knew what had become of the missing coin! How truly thankful he was for that, for it had saved him the necessity of telling a lie. He did not suppose he would hear anything about the Calais Noble again; but it made him the least bit uneasy to remember that his father considered it had been stolen, and he would have been more uneasy still had he known the suspicion which troubled his father's mind.

Entering his bedroom, he found his mother there, engaged in examining the contents of his wardrobe.

"I'm making up a parcel for your cousins," she explained, "so I'm looking to see if there's anything of yours you can part with. That suit of clothes is a little faded, but there's a lot of wear left in it; it would do for Roger to wear at home during the holidays, I dare say, and you won't want it again. See there's nothing in the pockets, Edgar."

He did so. It was the suit he had worn on the memorable day when he had lost the Calais Noble, and he drew an involuntary sigh as he noticed a rip in the trousers' pocket, which doubtless accounted for the disappearance of the coin.

"What is the matter?" inquired Mrs. Marsh, hearing the sigh, and noticing the serious expression of his face; "your father was not angry with you, was he? I know he was vexed because he had missed one of his coins—he has probably mislaid it, as I told him—but he could not possibly blame you for that, though to be sure, he was annoyed you had meddled with his keys."

"He—he thinks the coin has been stolen, mother."

"What nonsense! Who would steal it? Oh, it will turn up again! By-the-by, I'm going to drive to Princess Street after I've had a cup of tea, and you can come with me if you like."

Edgar brightened on hearing this; and, when an hour later he drove off with his mother in the direction of the town, he had quite recovered his usual spirits—indeed, he was easier in his mind than he had been for days, for he confidently hoped his trouble concerning the Calais Noble was at an end.

The Trents were all at home with the exception of the master of the house, and there was a flutter of excitement in the sitting-room when Mrs. Marsh's carriage stopped at the door. Polly flew to the window and reported the arrival of Aunt Janie and Edgar; and, a few minutes later, Louisa showed them into the room.

Mrs. Marsh kissed her sister-in-law, and shook hands with Cousin Becky, the latter of whom she complimented on her appearance, saying how much better she looked than when she had arrived at Beaworthy; then she turned her attention to the children, and Polly wondered if she would now remember her promise and ask her to the Rookery. Soon the boys withdrew to the window, where they talked together and remarked on the passers-by; but Polly listened to the conversation of her elders, observing her aunt with grave, grey eyes.

"Well, Polly," said Mrs. Marsh presently, with a smile, becoming aware of her little niece's scrutiny, "how are you spending these beautiful summer days?"

"As usual, Aunt Janie," was the response, given in accents of reserve.

"Let me see, I don't think we've met since that afternoon you shut yourself up in the clock case, have we? No. By the way, I thought you were going to spend a day with me at the Rookery; you have not been yet?"

"No," Polly replied coldly; then, her indignation getting the better of her, she added in a distinctly resentful tone: "I haven't been asked."

"Polly!" cried her mother in a shocked voice, whilst Mrs. Marsh flushed slightly, and gave a rather embarrassed laugh.

"That's why I haven't been there," the little girl declared; "Aunt Janie must know I shouldn't go unless she invited me, mother. I suppose she forgot."

"Well, will you come to-morrow?" Mrs. Marsh asked quickly. "It will be Saturday and therefore a holiday for the boys, and Roger will be able to come too. Do let them come, Mary," she said, turning to her sister-in-law, "the dog-cart shall call for them in the morning after it has taken John to the office, and I will send them home safely in the evening."

Mrs. Trent accepted the invitation for her children very gladly, for few pleasures came their way; and, after that, Polly unbent towards her aunt, and her face beamed with smiles.

Mrs. Marsh paid quite a long visit, and, when at length she took her departure with Edgar, the big brown paper parcel she had left in the hall was carried into the sitting-room, and the children began to examine its contents.

"All old clothes, as usual," remarked Polly ungratefully, an expression of disappointment flitting across her countenance. "Why, what's this?" she cried, a moment later, as she came upon a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper.

"Open it and see," said her mother.

She did so, and revealed to sight a pretty, green leather purse, which contained a new half-crown and a slip of paper with "For Polly from Aunt Janie" written across it in Mrs. Marsh's handwriting.

"Oh!" exclaimed the little girl, in mingled amazement and delight, "Oh, it's really for me! How good—how kind of her!"

"I know why she's done it, because Uncle John tipped me a half-crown when he met me with Edgar yesterday," said Roger, looking very pleased. "Edgar must have told her, and she thought you ought to be remembered too."

"Yes, she would not guess that you meant to divide your half-crown with me. Fancy her putting the money in this beautiful purse—quite a new purse too! See what a firm clasp it has! Oh, mother, isn't it a nice present?"

"It is indeed, my dear." Mrs. Trent's face was as bright as her little daughter's. "Aunt Janie is really very kind! I was sorry to hear you speak to her as you did, Polly."

"Well, she shouldn't have pretended she expected me at the Rookery without being asked, should she? She promised to invite me, and you know you always say, mother, that a promise should be kept. She said she would take me for a drive, and she ought to have thought I should look forward to that."

"She did not realise, I expect, what a treat a drive would be to you; she would not willingly disappoint you."

"No-o, perhaps not," Polly allowed, "that's what Cousin Becky said, but I cannot imagine how a grown-up person can be so—so ignorant. I think Aunt Janie means well," she admitted as she took another peep at the bright half-crown inside the purse, "and I shall never be able to thank her enough for this beautiful present. I wish, Roger, you had a purse, too."

"Oh, boys don't want purses," her brother replied, "they carry their money loose in their pockets. You needn't think I'm jealous, Polly."

"Jealous!" she cried with a happy laugh. "As though you would be that! Now we shall have half-a-crown each. How shall we spend our money?"

They proceeded to discuss this momentous question in low, confidential tones, whilst Mrs. Trent and Cousin Becky examined the various articles of clothing they had strewn upon the table. Many of the garments were in excellent condition, and Cousin Becky promptly promised her services as a needlewoman to turn them to the best account.

CHAPTER XV

EDGAR LEARNS HIS FATHER'S SUSPICIONS

"AUNT JANIE, I should think you must be a very happy person," said Polly, casting a contemplative glance around her.

Mrs. Marsh and her little niece were sitting on the garden seat beneath the laburnum tree at the Rookery, where they had had their tea, an arrangement which had delighted Polly and Roger, who were thoroughly enjoying the day as their aunt's guests. The morning had been spent in the gardens, and the afternoon in a long drive into the country; and now the boys had betaken themselves to the stables, whilst Polly, tired with pleasure and excitement, had gladly fallen in with her aunt's suggestion to rest awhile.

"Why should you think so?" Mrs. Marsh asked curiously.

"Because you've such a beautiful home and plenty of money. It must be nice to have plenty of money to be able to give people presents," Polly replied ingenuously, her hand slipping into her pocket to make certain her purse was safe. "I don't think I was ever so pleased before as I was last night when I came across your present. I can never thank you enough—"

"Why, my dear child," interposed Mrs. Marsh, with an amused laugh, "you've thanked me over and over again already."

"Because I feel so very grateful, Aunt Janie. No one ever gave me a half-crown in my life before. Roger has had several, though, and he has always shared them with me; you know, girls don't get as many tips as boys. That doesn't seem fair, does it?"

"I don't think it does. It has been very generous of Roger to share his money with you; few brothers would do that, I fancy."

"Wouldn't they?" said Polly, rather surprised. "Don't you think Edgar would if he had a sister? No. I don't expect he would, for Roger says he always keeps the best of everything for himself; I suppose that's because he's never had anyone to share with, Aunt Janie? It's a pity, isn't it? Cousin Becky says it is a misfortune to be an only child."

"Cousin Becky knows nothing about it," Mrs. Marsh said coldly, an expression of displeasure clouding her face. "Am I to understand she has been finding fault with Edgar?"

"Oh no, Aunt Janie; she stuck up for him. She said we ought to make allowances for him as he has no brother or sister; she likes him, she does indeed." Polly paused, looking slightly distressed, conscious she had been letting her tongue run away with her. "I'm afraid you don't like Cousin Becky," she proceeded hesitatingly, "but you don't know how kind she is to us."

"I think it is you, or your parents rather, who are kind to her."

"She pays for living with us," said Polly. "Father wouldn't allow her to do that if he was better off—he said so—but you know he is not rich like Uncle John, and—oh, I don't like to think how we should miss her if she went away now! She helps us with our lessons, and she's always doing things for mother; why, she made this frock! Isn't it pretty?" And the little girl arose and turned slowly round in front of her aunt that she might the better view Cousin Becky's handiwork.

"Yes, it is very nicely made," Mrs. Marsh allowed. "I expect Cousin Becky is accustomed to work for young people as she brought up her brother's children. By the way, does she ever hear from them?"

"Oh yes."

"Do they send her money, Polly?"

"I don't know, Aunt Janie, I don't think so. She reads their letters to mother, I've heard her; they write very nice letters."

"And you never heard any mention made of money? No? Dear me, what ingratitude! They ought to be contributing to her support, and so I should like to tell them. Why, she was like a mother to those children of her brother's, and to think that after devoting her life to them and their father, she should fall back upon Martin for a home in her old age—as though he had not enough weight upon his shoulders without burdening himself with an additional care! I have always declared he will live to rue the day when he took the charge of an old woman who never had the least claim upon him. Cousin Becky should have gone abroad to her nephew."

"But, Aunt Janie, she didn't wish to go, and I am sure, now, it would grieve us all dreadfully if she went." There were tears in Polly's eyes as she spoke, for Cousin Becky had won the devotion of her warm, young heart.

"It does not appear that she contemplates leaving you," Mrs. Marsh observed dryly, "so there is no cause for you to be distressed."

"What do you mean by saying father will live to rue the day when he took the charge of an old woman?" Polly asked, after a brief pause in the conversation, during which Mrs. Marsh had had time to regret what she had said. "Do you mean he will be sorry Cousin Becky came to us? I don't believe he will; and Cousin Becky says God will pay her debt to father, she told me she was sure of it, because Jesus said, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.' That's in the Bible, Aunt Janie. Had you forgotten it?"

No, Mrs. Marsh had not forgotten it, but she had not thought of it for a long, long while; it had slumbered in her memory through many years of prosperity, during which she had gone her own way thinking little of those less fortunate than herself; and a look which Polly failed to read crossed her face now—an expression of mingled shame and regret.

"Cousin Becky has found a champion in you, at any rate, my dear," she said at length in a softer tone. "You are evidently very fond of the old lady. I think I must try to see more of her in order to ascertain wherein lies her charm."

At that point in the conversation the boys reappeared upon the scene, and, a short while later, the master of the house arrived at home. The latter seated himself by his wife's side on the garden seat. He made a great deal of Polly, but he took but slight notice of Roger; indeed, so marked was the difference in his manner to the two children, that, after they had gone, his wife took him to task upon the subject.

When Edgar, who had volunteered to accompany his cousins to the entrance of the Rookery grounds on their departure and had said good-bye to them there, returned to his parents, he found them deep in earnest conversation. They did not notice his approach, for, with the mischievous intention of startling them and making them jump, he had crept up behind the seat, meaning to spring forward with a "whoop;" but, chancing to catch a sentence, spoken by his mother, he paused spell-bound.

"I can never believe that Roger is a thief!" she had incredulously exclaimed.

Then came her husband's answer, to which Edgar listened with breathless interest. "My dear, I sincerely trust he is not. You must not repeat a word of what I have said to Edgar, I would not have him know that I suspect his cousin of having taken the Calais Noble for the world. I like Roger, and I thought him straight like his father, certainly he proved to be so over that matter of the cigarettes; but—I know what boys are. My theory is this, that having learnt the value of the coin from Edgar, he gave way to sudden temptation and took it. If I am right, there is a possibility that I may yet get my Calais Noble back, for the boy will not know how to dispose of it."

Edgar waited to hear no more; and, without having made his presence known to his parents, he softly and swiftly hurried away and betook himself indoors, where he ran upstairs and shut himself into his own room, to consider this fresh development in connection with the Calais Noble undisturbed. His father suspected Roger of being a thief! Oh, he had never dreamed of such a contingency as that! What should he do? "Confess the truth," whispered his conscience. "Let the matter slide, you are not supposed to know your father's suspicion," whispered cowardice, "he will never tax your cousin with the theft."

"But, it is dreadful he should think Roger would do such a thing," the little boy thought distressfully, "it is so unjust! Oh, dear, I hoped that I should never be worried about the Calais Noble again—that father would think no more about it. Oh, what shall I do?"

Edgar was in a great state of mental trouble, tormented by feelings of remorse and fear. What would his father say if he found out the truth? Mr. Marsh had been both grieved and indignant when his son had allowed him to misjudge Roger on a much slighter matter than this; Edgar told himself he would never forgive him for exhibiting the same cowardice again, and yet he could not pluck up the courage to acknowledge he had lost the coin.

"I did not know he thought Roger had taken it if I had, I believe I should have told him all about it," he reflected. "But you know it now," conscience reminded him, "it is not too late to set the matter right." That Edgar did not do, however; he acted as though he was in total ignorance of his father's suspicion of Roger, and neither Mr. nor Mrs. Marsh made any mention of the missing coin to him. But, though the little boy kept silence concerning the Calais Noble, it was never out of his mind by day or night, for it was the dread of his waking hours, and it haunted his dreams which were troubled by harrowing scenes, in which Roger figured either in the clutch of a policeman, or in prison enduring punishment for a crime which he had never committed. It was small wonder that he grew pale and languid; but he declared, in answer to his mother's anxious questions, that he was quite well, and there was nothing amiss. He shirked Roger as much as possible, because his conscience worried him most when he was in his cousin's presence; and Roger, as soon as he became aware of the fact that Edgar tried to avoid him, kept out of his way.

Much to Polly's gratification, her aunt took her out driving on several other occasions; and one afternoon—seeing Mrs. Marsh really desired it—Mrs. Trent and Cousin Becky went too. On the latter occasion, the subject of summer holidays was mooted.

"You really ought all to have a nice change to the sea-side this summer, Mary," Mrs. Marsh said to her sister-in-law in her usual inconsiderate fashion. "Surely Martin will be able to manage it?"

"I am afraid not," Mrs. Trent answered, a wistful expression creeping into her eyes.

"You have not had a holiday for years," Mrs. Marsh persisted, "and Martin himself must badly need a change."

"Yes," assented Mrs. Trent; "but I fear there is no greater chance of his getting it this year than last," she added with a faint sigh.

"It is a long lane that has no turning," Cousin Becky quoted cheerfully. She looked at Polly as she spoke, and, though the little girl failed to grasp the meaning of the old proverb, she understood the glance of Cousin Becky's eyes, which smilingly reminded her of their secret.

How wonderful it would be if the little bird Cousin Becky had spoken of had really told true!

CHAPTER XVI

UNDER A CLOUD

THE clay works adjoining Beaworthy extended over many acres of ground, and were a source of great wealth to their owner—Mr. Marsh—who, however, was seen there only occasionally, for he employed an outdoor manager in whom he had implicit confidence. One hot July afternoon he arrived unexpectedly upon the scene of operations, driving in his dog-cart with his little son by his side, and called a man off his work to come and hold the horse.

"I can do that, father," said Edgar eagerly; "Darkie is very quiet, I can manage him all right."

"I daresay you can," Mr. Marsh admitted, for the horse, though spirited, was free from vice, "but I should not be satisfied to leave you in charge alone. I may keep you waiting some time, and if so Darkie will probably grow fidgety."

So the man—a thin, pale-faced man he was—took up his position at the horse's head, and stroked the creature's sleek neck. Darkie was a strong, brown cob, with a mealy nose and a satin-smooth coat. Edgar, who, at his mother's suggestion, was taking a half-holiday from school, thought his father might have trusted him alone with Darkie. The boy was not looking well, and he seemed in very poor spirits. For some minutes after Mr. Marsh had left him he did not speak; but at last he turned his attention to his companion, and inquired his name.

"Caleb Glubb, sir," was the response.

"Why, you are the man who had that bad accident back in the spring, then!" Edgar exclaimed, interested at once. "I've heard all about you from my cousins, and I know where you live. Are you quite well now?"

"Yes, thank you, sir, though not so strong as I was before my accident, perhaps. I was in hospital a long while, and after I came out I wasn't fit for work for weeks. Sickness does pull one down and no mistake. Ah, your cousins were very good to my poor wife in her trouble! There are not many children so kind as they are, but Sarah—that's my wife—says they're brought up to be feeling-hearted."

"What could they do for her?" asked Edgar. "Did they give her money?"

"They did, sir." The man's pale countenance brightened into a smile, and his voice bespoke his gratitude. "Would you believe that they actually saved their pocket-money and gave it to Sarah? Yes, that's what they did, and we're not likely to forget it."

"Was it much?" questioned Edgar; "but no, they get very little money to spend."

"That's what touched me so deeply," said the man. "They'd been rich folks it would have been different. Sarah took the money because they wished it, and—bless their dear hearts!—she said it made them so happy to think they'd been able to help her."

Edgar was silent for many minutes, whilst he reflected that he had never helped anyone in his life. He could not but admire the generous spirit which had prompted his cousins to assist the family in distress, though he would have understood it better if they had had more money to spare. Although he had a plentiful supply of pocket-money, he always spent it on himself; no one had ever had cause to bless him as this man had blessed Polly and Roger who had so little to give.

"I heard about the postal orders which your wife received every week," he said by-and-by. "Did you ever find out who sent them?"

"Never, sir. They came regularly every Saturday morning until I was well enough to earn full wages again, and then they stopped. I'd give a great deal to know who our unknown friend is, but we can't even make a guess as to who it can possibly be. As Sarah says, whoever it is doesn't wish to be thanked, that's certain. I shall never forget the first time Sarah told me she'd had a postal order for a pound sent her! It seemed like a miracle; and when, the next week, the same amount of money came again, and the week after, and so on, I knew God had raised up a friend for us who didn't mean to see my wife and children go short."

By-and-by Edgar grew tired of his position in the dog-cart, and got down. He wandered about watching the men at work in the various pits. In some they were cutting the clay out in squares; in others they were engaged in propping up the sides of the shafts with wooden stays; and from several water was being pumped up. It was a busy scene and one of considerable interest to Edgar, who visited the clay works but seldom, as he had received strict injunctions never to go there alone. Presently he turned his attention to a couple of men who were busily employed in sawing a tree into planks in a saw pit. It was most trying work for a hot summer's day, and when they stopped to indulge in drinks of cold tea from a keg, their faces were covered with perspiration, and they appeared quite done up. One of them good-naturedly offered Edgar a drink, but he declined it, and moved on. The clay which was being raised from one of the shafts was nearly as black as coal, and beside this shaft stood Mr. Marsh in conversation with the manager of the works. He turned to his little son, remarking that he supposed he had grown tired of waiting for him.

"Yes," Edgar assented, "so I have been having a look around. What dirty looking clay, father! Is it any good?"

"It is, indeed," Mr. Marsh answered, exchanging an amused glance with the manager. "In fact, it is of far greater value than the white clay, and we hope there is a big vein of it."

"I thought it was poor stuff," Edgar said, much surprised.

"On the contrary," his father assured him. "This dark clay will burn whitest of all and make the best quality china."

"Fancy that!" the little boy exclaimed, approaching nearer the edge of the shaft and peering down.

"Don't go too close," advised the manager hastily. "One false step and you'd have a dreadful fall—be killed, perhaps."

"I'll be careful," Edgar answered as he stood leaning forward, looking into the black depths below.

His father caught him by the arm and pulled him sharply back with a stern rebuke for his foolhardiness.

"There was no chance of my falling," Edgar declared, rather disconcerted. "I never get giddy."

"You cannot be certain you would not," Mr. Marsh said somewhat sternly. "You had better keep by my side, and then I shall know you are safe. I see you are not to be trusted by yourself."

"Very well, father," his son agreed. "I won't go away."

Subsequent to a little further conversation with the manager, Mr. Marsh retraced his footsteps to the dog-cart and Edgar followed him. They took their seats in the vehicle; and Caleb Glubb, after putting the reins into his master's hand, touched his cap and returned to his work, whilst Darkie started homewards at a good rate.

"Do you know who that man is?" Edgar inquired as soon as they were in the high road and passing the long rows of labour-men's cottages. "He lives there in that little house with the flowers in the garden."

"Does he?" Mr. Marsh said carelessly. "He is the poor fellow who met with a serious accident in the spring. But how did you come to know of him? I suppose you've been talking to him, eh?"

Edgar explained all he had heard concerning Caleb Glubb and his family from his cousins, winding up by repeating his conversation with the man that afternoon. Mr. Marsh listened at first with little interest; but he grew more alert towards the conclusion of his son's tale.

"I believe your cousins are good-natured children," he said when Edgar had ceased speaking. "Polly is a nice little girl, open as the day; and Roger—by the way, you have not seen much of him these last few weeks, have you?"

"No, father."

"How is that?"

"He—he avoids me," Edgar admitted, not explaining that that was his fault.

"Avoids you, eh? Why?"

"I don't know."

"I thought you were going to be friends." There was a decidedly troubled expression on Mr. Marsh's face, and he was so taken up with his own thoughts that he did not notice how guilty Edgar was looking.

By this time they had reached the town, and, shortly after passing the Grammar School, they overtook Roger himself on his way home. The little boy lifted his cap to his uncle, whilst a smile lit up his face; and Mr. Marsh asked himself if the owner of such a bright, frank countenance could possibly have robbed him of the missing coin. It seemed incredible, and yet his suspicion of his nephew was very strong.

"Roger is generally liked at school, is he not?" he asked. "He holds a good character, eh?"

"Oh yes," Edgar responded earnestly. "All the masters like him, and so do the boys."

"I hope he deserves their good opinion."

"I am sure he does, father."

Edgar was not sorry when the drive was at an end, for the doubtful way in which his father had spoken of his cousin had made him utterly miserable. He sometimes felt that he never would be happy again, for the sight of Roger was a constant reproach to him; and they might have been such good friends. He knew how true-hearted Roger was, and that he would scorn to act in any way that was not strictly honourable. What would his feelings be if he ever found out his uncle's suspicions of him? But he was not in the least likely to find it out. Edgar tried to obtain consolation in that thought, and then another would occur to his troubled mind. Supposing Roger discovered that the Calais Noble was lost, would he tell that his cousin had exhibited it at school? No, he had promised he would not, and he could be trusted to keep his word, at all costs.

Poor Edgar! He tried to think his guilty secret was safe with himself; but he was always in terror, lest by some unforeseen means it should be found out. The summer term, which should have passed so pleasantly, was completely spoilt for him; he had no heart to play cricket, but moped about the grounds at home on the weekly holiday, whilst it puzzled his mother why he did not care to join his school-fellows in their various pursuits. Why should her boy be different to others, she wondered? She was not unsociable herself, and she could not understand why Edgar should prefer to keep himself to himself. She had hoped he would have made friends at school.

CHAPTER XVII

IN VIEW OF A HOLIDAY

"WHAT a lot of letters you get, Cousin Becky!"

It was Polly who made this remark, one morning, as on taking her seat at the breakfast table she noticed several envelopes by Miss Trent's plate. It was very innocently said, not instigated by curiosity, and the little girl was quite unprepared for the look of confusion and the deepening colour with which it was greeted by Cousin Becky, who, however, merely replied that she had a large circle of correspondents.

"Attend to the business in hand, Polly, and eat your breakfast," said Mr. Trent, a trifle sharply. "You talk too much, my dear."

"That's what I am always telling her; she's a regular Poll parrot," laughed Roger, who, boy-like, was ever ready to tease his sister.

Polly deigned no answer, and during the meal she kept a dignified silence; but when she and her mother were alone, at lesson time, she reverted to the subject of Cousin Becky's letters.

"I did not know it was rude to speak of them," she said in a slightly injured tone. "Do you think it was, mother?"

"Not rude, exactly," Mrs. Trent answered, "but it was scarcely good manners. You would not like Cousin Becky to consider you inquisitive about her correspondence, would you?"

"No, indeed; but I am sure she would not think that. Perhaps I had better apologise to her?"

"No, dear, that would be making a great deal too much of a slight matter; but, in future, do not be so quick to remark upon another person's business."

"I am afraid Cousin Becky did not like my mentioning her letters," sighed Polly, "but she must know I did not mean to be rude. I think she is very fond of writing letters, mother, she writes so many in her own room."

"No doubt she is," Mrs. Trent responded carelessly; but she looked a trifle puzzled, for, like her little daughter, she had on several occasions been struck by the number of Miss Trent's correspondents.

It was the second week in July by this time, and the weather was intensely hot by day. The evenings were delightful, however, and often Miss Trent, who was a capital walker for a woman of her age, took her young cousins, after they had learnt their lessons, for pleasant rambles in the country. On one of these occasions they were passing the Rookery when they saw Edgar looking disconsolately through the bars of the big entrance gate, and Cousin Becky asked him to join them in their walk. His face brightened perceptibly at her invitation, but it clouded again as he caught sight of Roger's expression, which was anything but pleased.

"No, thank you," he answered with a little choke in his voice. "Roger doesn't want me, I see."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Cousin Becky. "You would like to come with us, would you not?" She looked from one boy to the other in bewilderment as she spoke. "What is amiss?" she questioned in accents of growing concern. "Have you fallen out?"

"Oh no, it's not that," Polly responded, seeing neither her brother nor her cousin had an answer ready; "but Edgar's much too high and mighty for Roger—"

"I'm not, Polly, you know I'm not!' Edgar broke in passionately, amazed at her words, and stung by the sarcasm of her tone.

"No, you're not," she agreed, "but you think you are! You consider yourself above us because you're richer than we are—because your father's richer than our father, I mean. Roger's told me everything—how you've been keeping him at a distance, hardly ever speaking to him, and never walking home from school with him as you used to do. Don't think we want you to come with us, pray." The little girl paused and looked indignantly at her cousin. To her surprise there were tears in Edgar's blue eyes, and instead of showing resentment he seemed greatly abashed. "You're no better than Roger," she added, "and if you think he wants to have anything to do with you, you're much mistaken."

"Hush, hush, my dear," admonished Cousin Becky, "you give that sharp tongue of yours too much licence. I did not know you could be such a little shrew."

"Indeed, Polly, you're wrong; I don't think myself better than Roger," Edgar said tremulously, and there was a ring of sincerity in his tone which his hearers could not fail to note. "You don't understand—I—I think you're very unkind, and I—oh, dear, you can't imagine how wretched I am! I'm so lonely."

"Lonely?" exclaimed Cousin Becky. "Then why not come with us?"

"But they don't want me," Edgar demurred, looking dubiously from one cousin to the other. "I—I don't wish to spoil their walk."

"You won't do that," Cousin Becky assured him. "Come, children," she continued persuasively, "have done with misunderstandings, and let us all be friends. Roger, won't you speak to your cousin, my dear?"

Roger hesitated; but, meeting an appealing glance from Edgar, his heart relented towards him, and he said simply:

"I don't want to be unfriendly with you, Edgar; but, really, you're the oddest boy I know. I never know how to take you, you're so changeable; you've been keeping out of my way for weeks, I cannot imagine why."

"And I can't explain," Edgar replied; "if I did you'd understand the reason quick enough, and you'd hate and despise me."

This sounded very mysterious; but knowing how prone children are to exaggeration, Cousin Becky was not so impressed as might have been expected. Polly and Roger exchanged questioning glances, but they refrained from putting any questions. Edgar was outside the gate by this time, and he raised no further objections to joining in the walk. At first he appeared in a very depressed state of mind; but by-and-by he grew more cheerful, and began to enjoy the company of his cousins. His manner was so unusually subdued and humble that even Polly relented towards him after a while, and when, on their way homewards, they said good-bye to him at the Rookery gate, she remarked in a tone, which though condescending was not unkind:

"I think it's a great pity you're not always so nice as you've been to-night."

After that evening Edgar frequently joined his cousins in their walks, and the cloud which had overshadowed him certainly lifted a little. His conscience still continued to prick him when he was in Roger's society, but not so sorely as it had done; for he was growing more and more hopeful that his cousin would never find out the Calais Noble was lost, and his fear of being questioned by him about it was passing away.

Meanwhile, it was drawing near the end of the term, and there was much talk amongst the Grammar School boys about the coming holidays. Mr. Trent was to get a holiday of three weeks in August, too; but he had not suggested spending it away from Beaworthy, so that when, one evening, Cousin Becky asked him if he proposed going to the sea-side, he glanced at her in surprise as he answered promptly:

"Oh no! It's quite out of the question."

"But, Martin, you want a change badly," his wife reminded him. "Don't you think it would do him good if he would go away by himself for a fortnight," she continued, appealing to Cousin Becky, "to some place where he could get good boating and fishing?"

"No, I do not," Cousin Becky replied with a ring of decision in her voice. "I don't think he would enjoy a holiday without his wife and family. You ought all to go."

"I thought you realised the impossibility of such a plan," Mrs. Trent said, almost reproachfully, astonished that Cousin Becky, who had proved herself quick-witted on more than one occasion, should be so uncommonly dense now.

"But is it impossible?" Cousin Becky queried; "I don't think so. I know a charming village called Lynn on the coast of Norfolk, which would be the very place for you to go to, for it is most remarkably healthy and bracing. I stayed there myself with my dear brother on various occasions, at a house belonging to a lady—a great friend of ours. She—this lady—wants me to go there again this summer; but I am determined I will not unless you all accompany me. There is the house, furnished, and waiting for us to occupy it, and all we have to do is to pack up here and take possession of it."

"But I don't understand," said Mrs. Trent, her face a picture of bewilderment. "Does your friend let her house furnished?"

"No, she never lets it, though she rarely occupies it herself; she only lends it to her friends. What do you say to closing the house here at the beginning of next month? Should you object?"

"Object?" Mrs. Trent echoed. "No, indeed, on the contrary—"

"Then let us all go together for a few weeks' holiday to the Mill House at Lynn. You will have no rent to pay there, and it will be a most pleasant change at very little expense. Shall we say it is decided?" And the old lady looked from one to the other of her cousins with a smile which hid the anxiety with which she anticipated an answer.

"Oh, how splendid it would be!" cried Polly, who, with her brother, had been listening to the conversation in silence hitherto. "Oh, dear, dear Cousin Becky, I do believe that little bird told you the truth, and that we are really going to have a summer holiday!" And the child danced wildly round the room in her excitement.

"And it's near the sea?" questioned Roger eagerly. "Oh, that's grand! We shall be able to bathe, and father will teach me to swim—won't you, father?"

"Not so fast, my son," admonished Mr. Trent, "you speak as though everything was settled. Cousin Becky," he proceeded, turning to the old lady who was regarding him appealingly, "you have planned a most alluring programme for us, but it seems to me we ought not to accept so great a favour as the loan of a house would be from a complete stranger."

"But I know her very well," Cousin Becky broke in eagerly, "and I am at liberty to entertain who I like at the Mill House during August; you will be my guests. You do not suggest, I suppose, that I should go to the Mill House alone? Oh, Martin, I have set my heart on our all having a nice holiday together; please do not disappoint me! Think how much good a thorough change of air will do you all. I want to see some roses in your wife's white cheeks, and Polly is looking a great deal too pale. Do not go against me in this matter, pray."

Mr. Trent hesitated, whilst he glanced inquiringly at his wife. "What do you think about it, my dear?" he asked. "Do you wish to accede to this plan which Cousin Becky has made for our benefit?"

"So much, Martin," she confessed. "It has taken me by surprise, but it would be so very nice if we could all have a holiday together. We have not had one for so long."

There was a ring of unconscious pathos in Mrs. Trent's voice, which settled the question as far as her husband was concerned, for he turned immediately to Cousin Becky, and said:

"It shall be as you will, but we shall be under a great obligation to your friend; I hope you will make her understand how grateful we feel. Is she at Lynn at present?"

"No, she is very rarely there, and if we do not occupy the Mill House next month, no one else will, so you need not burden yourself with any sense of obligation. It is a comfortable house, old, and plainly furnished; but I am sure you will like it. I think, by the way, it would be a good plan to take Louisa with us instead of getting help from the village."

Mrs. Trent agreed. She was only a little less excited than the children at the prospect of a holiday, and Cousin Becky was plainly delighted at having gained her own way, and confessed that she had been planning this treat for them in her mind several weeks, and had been awaiting a favourable opportunity to broach the subject. Mr. Trent, too, seemed very pleased; but at the same time he was rather puzzled. He wondered who Cousin Becky's friend could be and why she had not mentioned her by name; he had remarked that she had carefully abstained from doing so.

By-and-by Polly rushed off to the kitchen to impart the news of the impending holiday to Louisa, and was beyond measure gratified by the sensation she caused.

"Wonders will never cease, Miss Polly!" exclaimed Louisa impressively, after she had fully grasped the facts that the house in Princess Street was to be shut up and that she, too, was to go to the Mill House at Lynn. "Why, I'm so surprised and pleased that I can't find a word to say." This was a mistake on Louisa's part, however, for she found a great many words, and asked a great many questions about the Mill House, which of course the little girl could not answer, and finally she inquired the name of this friend of Miss Trent's who was not against lending her house in such a casual way.

"Cousin Becky didn't say, but I'll ask her," Polly replied; and, forthwith, she returned to the sitting-room to put the inquiry.

But Cousin Becky shook her head when questioned, and replied with a smile:

"I cannot tell you my friend's name, because—to be plain—she does not wish it told. It doesn't matter, does it? She is an eccentric person, who likes to do little kindnesses when it is possible, without being thanked."

"I see," Polly responded gravely. "Well, I shall call her our good fairy, for she must be another such person as the one who was so kind to poor Sarah Glubb. How nice it is to think there are so many good fairies still left in the world!"

CHAPTER XVIII

THE REAPPEARANCE OF THE CALAIS NOBLE

"I am so glad Martin has decided to take his family away this summer," remarked Mrs. Marsh, at the breakfast table one morning, a few days after her brother had agreed to Cousin Becky's plan for a holiday. "I met Mary and the children in the town yesterday, and they were quite excited at the prospect of turning their backs on Beaworthy for a few weeks—poor things! I daresay I should feel the same if I had not had a change for years. Cousin Becky is to accompany them to Norfolk, I hear."

"It's through Miss Trent that they're going," Mr. Marsh replied. "A friend of hers has lent them a furnished house, it appears—the Mill House, at Lynn. Your brother asked me if I knew the place. I remember I chanced to visit it once from Cromer."

"Who can Cousin Becky's friend be, I wonder?" said Mrs. Marsh musingly, her face expressive of surprise and curiosity, for this was news to her. She had only had a few words with her sister-in-law on the previous day, and had heard no details in connection with the projected holiday.

"Ah, that's a secret," Edgar informed her. He was very inquisitive upon the point himself. "Roger says Cousin Becky hasn't told anyone—not even Uncle Martin. The lady the house belongs to doesn't wish her name to be known."

"How extraordinary!" exclaimed Mrs. Marsh, "And how very mysterious! A lady, you say?" She paused as her son assented, a pucker of thought between her brows. By-and-by she proceeded, turning to her husband, "John, have you considered at all where we shall go this summer? It is quite time we settled upon a place."

"I have not thought about it," Mr. Marsh admitted. "In fact, I do not want to leave home during August, this year."

"But Edgar must have a change of air in his holidays, he has not been looking well lately," Mrs. Marsh reminded him, "and the school re-assembles in the middle of September."

"Well, why not send him with his cousins?" suggested Mr. Marsh. "I think that would be a good plan. Then you and I could go to Scotland later in the autumn. How would you like that, eh?"

"Very well," Mrs. Marsh answered, after a minute's reflection. "And I should be quite contented to trust Edgar with his aunt and uncle, but perhaps it may not be convenient for them to take him. However, I can easily ascertain that."

"Oh, they will take him," Mr. Marsh said confidently. "I have no doubt about that. Make what arrangements you please, my dear. I see by Edgar's face the plan meets with his approval."

Accordingly, that afternoon Mrs. Marsh repaired to her brother's house in Princess Street, where she found her sister-in-law and Polly at home.

"I am come to ask a favour of you, Mary," she said, after greetings had been exchanged, and Mrs. Trent had told her that Cousin Becky was out, "and I have every hope that you will grant it."

"You may depend I will if I possibly can," was the earnest reply.

"I am sure of it. Well, John does not want to leave home at present, and of course we wish Edgar to have a change of air during his holidays, so we have been wondering if we can prevail upon you to take him with you to Lynn. I am sure he will be very little trouble." She paused and looked at Mrs. Trent inquiringly. "Of course we will pay you for his board and lodgings," she added. "We will agree to your terms."

"I was not thinking of that," Mrs. Trent answered, a slight flush rising to her pale cheeks. As a matter-of-fact it had flashed through her mind that the charge of her nephew would be a great responsibility, but she refrained from saying so. "You know, we shall be actually Cousin Becky's guests," she continued, "but for her we should not be going away at all, so I must consult her before I give you an answer. I do not know the exact size of the Mill House, whether there will be a room to spare for Edgar or not; but if there should be, and Cousin Becky is willing for him to make one of our party—"

"Well, talk the matter over with her and let me know," broke in Mrs. Marsh. She was a trifle vexed at the hesitancy in her sister-in-law's manner, for she had thought she would have immediately acceded to her request, and she had intended to have had the matter settled at once.

"I hope you will have a pleasant holiday," she proceeded, "for I am sure you all need it. I was never in Norfolk myself."

"Cousin Becky says the Mill House is only about five minutes' walk from the sea," explained Polly. "Oh, I am certain we shall have a lovely time! Isn't it kind of Cousin Becky's friend to lend us the house!"

"Very," agreed Mrs. Marsh. "And you have not the least idea who she is, have you?"

"No," Mrs. Trent replied; "we only know she is an eccentric lady, who, when she does a kindness, dislikes being thanked for it. Cousin Becky has known her all her life."

"Mother, you have not told Aunt Janie about the coin," said Polly, abruptly changing the conversation.

"I was going to do so in due course, my dear." Turning to her sister-in-law, Mrs. Trent asked: "You remember that suit of clothes of Edgar's which you left here in a parcel with some other things, do you not?"

"When you gave me my purse, Aunt Janie," supplemented Polly.

"Yes," assented Mrs. Marsh. "The suit was faded but very little worn. I thought Roger might find it useful in the holidays."

"Indeed, he will find it very useful," Mrs. Trent agreed. "Well, this morning Cousin Becky was examining it to see if it wanted any mending, when she discovered something between the material and the lining near the hem of one of the legs of the trousers she ripped the hem and found an old coin, which Martin says he believes must be one from your husband's collection. He calls it a Calais Noble."

"A Calais Noble!" echoed Mrs. Marsh. "Are you sure? Why, that is the coin John lost, and which he has been so worried about. He thought that it had been stolen. How could it possibly have got where Cousin Becky found it?"

"There was a little rip in the pocket near the top," Polly was beginning to explain when her aunt interrupted her excitedly.

"Oh, dear, how sorry I am! Then he did take it, after all! I could not believe it possible when John suggested it. Oh, Mary, I am so terribly grieved that this should have happened."

"I don't understand," said Mrs. Trent, in utter bewilderment. "Who do you imagine took the coin?"

"Roger, of course!"

"Roger!" shrieked Polly, her eyes flashing anger and reproach at her aunt. "Do you mean to say you think Roger stole it? Oh, you cruel, wicked—"

"Hush, Polly," commanded her mother sternly. "Please explain your meaning," she said quickly to Mrs. Marsh. "I fail to see why, because this coin has been found in Edgar's suit of clothes, you should think Roger a thief."

"John feared he had taken it," Mrs. Marsh admitted. "He knew he had had the opportunity of doing so on an occasion when Edgar showed him the coins, and I believe Edgar told him that this particular coin was a valuable one. Give me the Calais Noble, Mary, and I will hush the matter up. I expect after Roger took it he—"

"Roger did not take it!" Polly broke in passionately, regarding her aunt with defiance. "I am certain he did not; besides, the Calais Noble was found in Edgar's clothes, not in Roger's."

"Roger has never worn that suit of clothes," declared Mrs. Trent, her face, which had been very troubled, suddenly clearing. "The coin was evidently put in the trousers pocket, and I think it is far more likely that Edgar can account for the coin having been where Cousin Becky found it than Roger, who never had the clothes in his possession."

There was a long silence, during which Mrs. Marsh's fine colour faded and her expression became anxious, almost frightened. It did not seem likely that Edgar should have taken the Calais Noble, and yet she saw the force of her sister-in-law's argument.

"Where is the coin?" she asked at length, in a faltering tone.

"Father has it," Polly answered. "He is going to return it to Uncle John; he will be sure to see him this afternoon at the office. Oh, Aunt Janie, say you don't think Roger took it!"

"I don't know what to say or think," sighed poor Mrs. Marsh. "Does Roger know where the coin was found?"

"Oh yes! He was so amazed when Cousin Becky told him and showed it to him. He said at once, 'Why that's Uncle John's Calais Noble!' Didn't he, mother?"

"Yes, he recognised it immediately," said Mrs. Trent.

Then she remembered how silent Roger had afterwards become, and she grew a little uneasy again. He had suggested taking the coin to school and giving it to Edgar to deliver to Mr. Marsh; but his father had negatived the idea, saying he would return it to his brother-in-law himself. Roger had appeared rather dissatisfied with that arrangement, she reflected; she wondered why. She longed for him to return from school so that she might question him upon the point. Of one thing she was certain, however, that her boy was not a thief. That there was a mystery in connection with the Calais Noble was evident, but she never for a moment doubted that Roger would be able to clear himself from blame.

"My husband will be pleased to get his coin back, for he set great store by it," Mrs. Marsh observed, as she rose rather hurriedly to take her departure. "I am extremely sorry I mentioned his suspicion of Roger. I feel sure you are right and that he did not take the coin, though I cannot understand its having been found in Edgar's suit. I think the best way will be to let the matter stand as it is. You don't agree with me? Well, I will question Edgar and see if he can throw any light on the subject. Dear me, what constant worries boys are!"

After she had gone, mother and daughter looked at each other questioningly, and the latter cried:

"Oh, mother, how dreadful to think that Uncle John believes Roger to be a thief! How dare he?"

"He will learn his mistake, my dear," Mrs. Trent responded soothingly, with difficulty concealing her own indignation. "He has misjudged my boy terribly, I am positive of that."

"He thinks Roger took the coin because it is valuable," the little girl proceeded, her voice quavering with anger. "He wouldn't think it if we had plenty of money like himself. Oh, mother, how hard it is to be poor! I believe that somehow this is Edgar's fault. Oh, whatever happens don't let him go to Norfolk with us! I shall beg Cousin Becky not to take him."

"Do nothing of the kind, Polly and I must forbid you to interfere in this affair of the Calais Noble, my dear, it will be sifted out, never fear; your father will see to that. It will be better, for everyone concerned, not to make a fuss about it. I have not the slightest fear on Roger's account, though I think it is not unlikely that he knows something about the Calais Noble, that I must find out. It has hurt me very deeply to hear of your uncle's suspicion, but I am confident Roger will be able to clear himself from it. The truth always prevails, you know."

Mrs. Trent's lips quivered as she spoke, and her eyes grew misty with tears. She had experienced a shock that afternoon, which had shaken her composure; and she was really quite as indignant as her little daughter that anyone should deem Roger so utterly devoid of right principle as to be capable of theft. Anxiously she awaited the boy's arrival; but, contrary to his custom, he was late for tea; and when five o'clock struck, Cousin Becky having returned, they had the meal without him. Miss Trent was informed of all that had occurred during Mrs. Marsh's visit, and her utter incredulity and amazement when she was told of Mr. Marsh's suspicion of Roger was witnessed with the keenest relief by the boy's mother and sister.

"I knew you'd believe in Roger," Polly said tearfully. "I would—against all the world!"

CHAPTER XIX

AN ACCIDENT TO EDGAR

"MOTHER has gone to see Aunt Mary to ask her to take me to Lynn next month," Edgar Marsh informed his cousin, as they passed out of the Grammar School building at about the same time that his mother was leaving Princess Street. "I say, Roger, shall you like me to go with you?" he asked eagerly.

"I don't know," Roger answered dubiously. "But how is it you aren't going for a holiday with Aunt Janie and Uncle John?" he inquired.

"Because father doesn't want to leave home till later. I hope you don't mind—" Edgar broke off in the midst of the sentence, and regarded his cousin anxiously.

"Oh, I don't mind. But, look here, I want to speak to you about Uncle John's Calais Noble. Such an odd thing has happened! Why, how queer you look!"

Well might Roger say so, for his companion had grown very pale, and was gazing at him with an expression of mingled dismay and alarm in his blue eyes; seeing which Roger was confirmed in the suspicion which had entered his mind as soon as he had heard of Cousin Becky's find. "Didn't you put the coin back that day you brought it to school?" he asked. "Did you lose it? What happened, Edgar?"

"I—I don't know what you mean," gasped Edgar.

"Why do you speak of the Calais Noble? What do you know about it?"

"Not so much as you do," Roger replied significantly, with a ring of scorn in his honest voice. "Why do you try to deceive me? I know you couldn't have put the coin back in the cabinet as you said you would, or it wouldn't have been found in your clothes."

"Found in my clothes!" cried Edgar, feeling more and more surprised and frightened. "Oh, Roger, don't go home yet! Come for a walk with me where we shan't be disturbed, and tell me what you have found out."

"Well, I will, if you'll promise to tell no more stories," Roger said relentingly, "not otherwise."

Edgar promised earnestly that he would speak no word which was not absolutely true; and, accordingly, his cousin accompanied him down a side street which made a short cut into the road leading to the clay works, and there, perched by the side of Roger on a five-barred gate, he explained in faltering tones that he had been unable to put the Calais Noble back in its rightful place for the simple reason that he had lost it; whereupon Roger informed him how and where the coin had been found, after which there was silence for some minutes.

"I'm in a pretty bad fix," Edgar remarked dejectedly, at length, heaving a deep sigh.

"Why?" asked Roger. "I should think Uncle John will be very glad to get his Calais Noble back. Aren't you glad it's found?"

"N-o-o, I'd rather not have heard anything more about it. Of course father missed it, but I—I didn't tell him I'd taken it; he didn't ask me if I had, so I held my tongue."

Roger stared at his cousin with deepening amazement; then an expression of contempt crossed his face.

"Father would have been so dreadfully angry if he'd known I'd taken the Calais Noble to school and lost it," Edgar proceeded excusingly. "He never guessed I had anything to do with it, he thought it had been stolen."

"What a coward you are!" Roger exclaimed in a tone which made the other wince. "Who did Uncle John think had stolen it? One of the servants, I suppose? What a shame of you to let him think that! I do feel disgusted with you. But he'll know the truth now."

"Yes," agreed Edgar with a groan of despair. "I wish I'd told him all about it at the time I lost the coin, but I never thought it would turn up again. There would have been a row, of course, but it would have all blown over long before now. You can guess what a state of mind I've been in lately."

Roger made no response. He could not understand the spirit of cowardice which had kept his cousin from confessing the truth; but he realised that the thought of the missing coin must have been a weight upon his conscience.

"I suppose Uncle Martin has given father the Calais Noble by this time," Edgar remarked mournfully by-and-by. "He will be sure to tell him where it was found."

"Sure to," Roger replied; "you'll have to own up, now."

"I see that. I suppose you think pretty badly of me, Roger, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," was the frank admission.

"You'd rather I didn't go with you to Lynn?"

"Well, you see, Edgar, you're not to be trusted," Roger said gravely, "and I hate having to do with a fellow I can't trust. I like my friends to 'act on the square,' as father says, but you know you don't do that."

"Then you won't ever be friendly with me again?" Edgar asked in dismay.

"I don't say that, because you're my cousin; but I think you've been a big coward to let your father believe the Calais Noble had been stolen, when you knew all the time you'd lost it. I didn't tell at home that you'd taken it to school because I'd promised you I wouldn't; but, of course, everyone will know about it now. I shan't hold my tongue any longer."

"I don't know what Polly will think of me," said Edgar dolefully; for, truth to tell, he was afraid of the little girl's sharp tongue. "Mother meant to call to see Aunt Mary this afternoon," he continued, "so I expect she knows by now that the Calais Noble is found. Oh, dear, what a to-do there will be when I get home! I do dread it. I wish I hadn't been a coward and had told father the truth, but—but he would have been so angry."

"I expect he'll be angrier now, won't he?" questioned Roger.

Edgar nodded, his eyes full of tears, a choking sensation in his throat. Much though his companion blamed him, he was sorry for him too, and when he spoke again his voice took a gentler tone.

"Father says if we do anything wrong it's always right and much easier to confess it at once," he said. "And Uncle John isn't very strict with you, he wouldn't be hard on you, I know."

"Of course not; but, you see, I had no right to touch his coins."

"There now, that's what father says," said Roger, "it's doing wrong that makes us cowards. If you'd taken the Calais Noble with Uncle John's consent you wouldn't have been so afraid to tell him you'd lost it. But, I say," he proceeded with an abrupt change of the subject as several carts passed them laden with black clay, "look at the stuff in those carts! Did you ever see clay like that before?"

"Yes, I saw the pit it comes from the other day; it's the best clay, father says, and will burn quite white. He hopes there's a big vein of it; they are at work on one shaft now."

"Let us go on, Edgar, now we're so near the works, and have a look round, shall we?" Roger suggested.

Edgar hesitated. He was wishful to assent to the proposition, which would delay his return home for a short while; but he had been forbidden to visit the clay works—a fact of which his cousin was unaware. He glanced at his watch—a present he had received from his parents on his last birthday—and asked:

"Have we time? It is already half-past four."

"I don't want to be home before five," Roger answered, "and I can run home in quarter of an hour; and as for you—well, I suppose it doesn't matter to five minutes or so what time you get back, does it?"

Edgar admitted that it did not; and, accordingly, the two boys went on, passed the cottages, and entered the clay works. Roger was particularly anxious to see the pit from whence the black clay was procured, and Edgar felt a sense of importance at being able to tell him all about it. Several men were at work in the shaft, but they were so busily employed that for some time they did not notice the two boys standing on the edge of the pit watching them; at last, however, one chanced to glance up, and immediately shouted a warning to be careful.

"All right," Roger replied, moving back at once. "We'd better not go too close, Edgar. Come away."

There had been heavy rain during the night, consequently the ground was very cloggy, and as Roger looked back to ascertain if his cousin was coming, he was horrified to see Edgar, who had turned around to follow him, slip, and with a piercing yell of terror fall backwards into the mouth of the pit.

In a moment the scene was one of the greatest confusion, for the accident had been witnessed by several men engaged in loading carts with clay, and they one and all rushed to the spot where the unfortunate boy had fallen, shouting questions to those below. For a minute Roger was too shocked to move, and when he would have joined the group at the edge of the shaft, someone caught him by the arm and stopped him.

"Let me go to him!" Roger implored. "Oh, poor, poor Edgar! He must have been killed. Oh, please, let me go to him!"

"No, sir," replied a familiar voice, and, looking quickly at his captor, the little boy recognised Caleb Glubb. "You wait here with me till we hear more about what's happened. My mate's gone to find out if your cousin's much injured, or—" The man paused with a shudder. "You can't do any good if I let you go," he added, "you'd better wait, it won't be for long."

Roger's teeth chattered with fright, and his legs trembled so much that he could scarcely stand, but he tried to restrain his emotion, whilst a wild prayer of agony to God rose from his heart. Oh, how awful if Edgar should have been killed! Who would tell the harrowing news to Aunt Janie and Uncle John? So engrossed was he in contemplating the horrors of what might be that he never noticed the arrival of his uncle's dog-cart, nor did he see his uncle hurry past him to the mouth of the pit; but, presently, he became aware that Caleb Glubb was speaking again.

"They've brought him up, Master Roger," Caleb said. "He's unconscious, but they say he isn't dead; maybe, after all, he's not very badly hurt."

"Let me go and find out," Roger said huskily, moving forward. There was a mist in front of his eyes, but he saw several figures bending over the inanimate form of his cousin at a little distance. "Is he dead?" he asked with a sob. "Oh!" he cried as he caught sight of Edgar's pallid face and closed eyes. "Tell me he is not dead!"

"No, no," someone answered, "and no bones are broken; the injury seems to be to his head. He fell on a piece of timber and stunned himself."

Roger did not hear the completion of the sentence, for suddenly he found himself confronted by his uncle's familiar figure.

"Uncle John!" he gasped, terror-stricken by the sight of Mr. Marsh's countenance, which was ghastly in its pallor. "Oh, Uncle John!"

His uncle took him by the arm and drew him aside so that they could not be overheard.

"How is it you are here?" he demanded sternly. "Did you persuade Edgar to come?" Then, as Roger assented, never dreaming of explaining how little persuasion had been required, he continued, "I thought as much. Go home and keep out of my sight. I never wish to see you again. You are a worse boy than I thought. Go."

"But is Edgar much hurt?" asked Roger, too full of anxiety on his cousin's account to resent his uncle's words. "Oh, Uncle John, tell me, do!"

"I don't know myself," Mr. Marsh replied. "I have sent for a doctor and a carriage to convey my poor boy home. The best thing you can do is to go home yourself."

Roger obeyed without further demur; and half an hour later he turned the corner of Princess Street, and caught sight of Polly's face at the sitting-room window. She saw at once that something had happened, and met him at the front door; but he brushed past her into his mother's presence, and flung himself, weeping bitterly, into his mother's arms. It was such an unusual sight to see her brother in tears that the little girl was struck with mingled awe and dismay; but when, between his sobs, he explained what had happened, she no longer wondered at his emotion, but cried bitterly too.

CHAPTER XX

COUSIN BECKY TAKEN INTO CONFIDENCE

ALL was bustle and confusion at the Rookery when Edgar was brought home, for the news of the accident had so frightened Mrs. Marsh that she had been utterly incapable of giving any instructions to the servants, and, at the sight of her son's unconscious form, she had become so completely unnerved that the doctor, seeing that he could not rely upon her for assistance, had requested her to remain downstairs until he had satisfied himself as to the extent of Edgar's injuries. At the present moment the unhappy mother, overcome with grief and suspense, was pacing up and down the hall, waiting for news of her boy—Edgar had been conveyed to his own bedroom—and bemoaning her inexperience of sickness and her lack of self-control.

"It terrified me to see his dear face looking so deathly," she wailed, when one of the servants ventured a word of consolation. "I could not help crying out. Who's that? There's someone at the front door."

As she spoke the front door opened, and Cousin Becky and Mr. Trent entered, their faces expressive of the greatest concern and sympathy. Cousin Becky had come to know if she could be of any assistance, "for I have seen much sickness and I am really a capital nurse," she explained as Mrs. Marsh regarded her more than a little doubtfully.

"How good of you to come!" Mrs. Marsh replied, much touched. "They have taken my poor boy upstairs, but the doctor will not allow me in his room because I cannot help crying—I fear I am very foolish. Oh, Cousin Becky, I am so thankful you are here."

Cousin Becky divested herself of her bonnet and cloak, and handed them to a servant; then she turned again to Mrs. Marsh, and said: "I am going upstairs at once to offer my services as a nurse. Your brother will remain with you, for I know he will not return to Princess Street until he has heard the doctor's report."

"I will show you Edgar's room," Mrs. Marsh said, and she preceded the old lady upstairs. On the first landing she pointed to a closed door, and whispered: "In there."

Cousin Becky nodded; and Mrs. Marsh watched her as she quietly opened the door and entered the sick room. The next moment the door was closed again; and, though the anxious mother listened attentively, no sound reached her ears; so, very sick at heart, she went downstairs and joined her brother. She was much calmer now, and able to discuss what had happened; she admitted that Edgar had been forbidden to visit the clay works.

"Roger was with him and witnessed the accident," Mr. Trent informed her. "It has been a great shock to him, as you may imagine. It appears he asked Edgar to accompany him to see a new shaft which had lately been opened; he did not know Edgar had been told not to go there. Oh, Janie, thank God your boy was not killed! He might have been, indeed it was marvellous he was not. Fortunately his fall was broken by a wide piece of timber which spanned the shaft, and a man who was standing on the timber at work caught him, or he would have rebounded and fallen to the bottom of the pit. I heard all about it from another man who was at work in the same shaft. Come, try not to cry any more, but pluck up your heart, for there is every reason to hope that Edgar is not very seriously hurt. He will have the best that human skill can do for him; and he is in God's care, dear Janie, don't forget that."

Mrs. Marsh's tears continued to flow, but her brother's words comforted her, and her face brightened as she remarked: "It was very good of Cousin Becky to come to us in our trouble."

"Cousin Becky is very good and kind," Mr. Trent answered. "Directly she heard of poor Edgar's accident she thought you would want help and suggested offering her services to you. You were wise to accept them, and I am sure she will be a great comfort to you."

Mrs. Marsh did indeed find Cousin Becky a great comfort to her in the anxious days which followed, for, though it proved that Edgar had not been dangerously injured, he had slight concussion of the brain and required careful nursing. And, with the best intentions in the world, his mother was very incapable in sickness, so that it was upon Cousin Becky that most of the nursing fell. Cousin Becky was so quiet and gentle in her ways, her voice was so soft and soothing that it did not worry an aching head, and she was so unfailingly cheerful, whilst her skirts never rustled, and her footsteps could scarcely be heard. In short, she was a perfect nurse.

It was several days after his accident before Edgar was in a fit condition to think of anything; but, with returning strength, he remembered many matters to worry about, and he became very troubled and unhappy. His father visited him every morning before he went to business; but he never mentioned anything he thought would distress his little son, so that no word had been said concerning Edgar's disobedience in going to the clay works, and there was still the mysterious disappearance of the Calais Noble to be explained. His mother, too, though she spent hours by his bedside daily now, would not permit him to talk on any unpleasant subject, and stopped him with a kiss when he began to say that he was sorry he had been disobedient and caused everyone so much anxiety and trouble.

"Don't talk about it, darling," she said tenderly. "You were no more to blame than Roger."

"It was not Roger's fault; mother," he told her earnestly, "I did not tell him I had been forbidden to go to the clay pits. Roger must not be blamed."

"Very well, dearie," Mrs. Marsh replied soothingly, "but don't think about what is past. We want you to make haste and get well."

During the first few days of his illness Edgar had progressed very favourably; but now the doctor was not so satisfied with him, and was puzzled to account for his restless, feverish condition. Cousin Becky, who was a very shrewd observer, thought the patient had something on his mind, and one afternoon, when she was left alone in charge of the little boy, instead of discouraging him when he showed an inclination to become confidential, she sat down on a chair by the bed where she could watch him, and allowed him to talk.

"Have you seen Roger lately, Cousin Becky?" he asked.

"Not since the night of your accident, my dear," she answered. "You know the holidays have commenced, and your cousins and your aunt and uncle have gone to Lynn."

"What, without you?" he cried in surprise.

"Of course," Cousin Becky replied with a soft laugh, "or I should not be here with you now."

"But I thought you intended going with them?"

"I hope to join them later on when you are better, my dear boy. I have promised your mother to remain at the Rookery till you are properly convalescent."

"Thank you so much," he said gratefully, "I—I really don't think I can do without you yet; that is, unless you want to go very particularly. Do you know there was a talk of my going to Lynn too? Mother and father wished it; but Roger didn't want me, and I don't suppose Polly did either."

"Why not, my dear?"

"Because—because—Roger said I was not to be trusted, and, it's true, I'm not. You don't know what a bad boy I've been, no one knows except Roger, I had to tell him."

He raised himself in bed as he spoke and looked at his companion with feverishly bright eyes. "You found the Calais Noble," he said with a slight sob, "so you know something about it, but not all. I took it from father's cabinet to show it to a boy at school, weeks ago, and I lost it; but I never told father, I was afraid to, because it's a valuable coin and very rare. Father thought Roger had stolen it, I heard him tell mother so, and—and I let him believe it. Oh, no wonder you look so surprised and shocked! Oh, dear, you'll never like me again!" And the little boy burst into a storm of tears.

Cousin Becky made no response; but she rose and put her arms around his quivering form, and her silent sympathy soothed and comforted him. He felt she understood his remorse and his wretchedness; and, by-and-by when he grew calmer, he told her the whole story of his cowardice, and, in her pity for his distress of mind, she volunteered to lay all the details before his parents.

"They will forgive you, I know, for you are so very dear to them both," she said earnestly; "but at the same time I am sure they will be very hurt to think that you allowed them to harbour a baseless suspicion of your cousin, simply to save yourself from blame. And Roger is so straightforward, too!"

"Yes!" sighed Edgar. "It has made me dreadfully miserable to know that father thought badly of him."

"And yet you had not the pluck to acknowledge the truth and clear his character in your father's eyes! Oh, child, why cannot you be straight like your cousin? Do you not wish to be honourable and truthful?"

"Oh yes! But—but it's so difficult."

"Do you pray for strength to overcome this moral weakness of yours?" Cousin Becky asked, her bright dark eyes watching him anxiously.

"No," he admitted. "I—I never thought of doing that."

"It's only by prayer and God's help that you can do it, my dear boy. You know what is right; and yet, to save yourself punishment and blame, you deliberately take a crooked path. It is the greatest thing in the world to be true, for only the truthful soul can ever be happy and fearless. 'Great is the truth, and it will prevail.' That is a proverb worth remembering. Do try to bear it in mind, and humbly ask your Father in Heaven to make you a better—a more truthful boy. God has been very merciful to you, my dear. Have you thought how very near you were to meeting a shocking death when you fell down that clay shaft? You had almost a miraculous escape. Have you thanked God for sparing your life?"

"No, but I will," Edgar responded earnestly. "Oh, Cousin Becky, I am so ashamed of myself altogether; you do believe that, don't you?"

"Yes, my dear, I do."

"And will, you try to make mother and father believe it also?"

"I will do my best. Now lie down and rest. I want you to get well and strong as soon as possible, and then I am going to ask your parents a favour."

"What is that?" Edgar inquired as he sank wearily back upon his pillows.

"I am going to ask them to let me take you with me to Lynn."

"Oh, Cousin Becky, after—after all you know about me?"

"Yes; because I believe you're going to turn over a new leaf and try to walk a straight path in the future—because I'm going to trust you," said Cousin Becky as she tucked the bed-clothes around him. She bent over him and kissed him affectionately; but he made no reply, he was too deeply touched. Then she withdrew to the window, where she stood looking thoughtfully out into the sunlit garden until she heard by the patient's regular breathing that he had fallen asleep.

That evening Miss Trent told Mr. and Mrs. Marsh the true story of the loss of the Calais Noble. It was a blow to both of them to learn how their son had behaved; but it came less as a surprise to Mrs. Marsh than to her husband, who reproached himself bitterly for his suspicion of Roger. Needless to say, Edgar was forgiven; but his parents were deeply grieved and mortified that he should have acted so deceptively and allowed his cousin to be blamed in his stead, and Mrs. Marsh was troubled by the remembrance of her last visit to Princess Street, when, in her surprise at hearing the Calais Noble had been found, she had spoken as though Roger was the culprit who had taken the coin.

At first Mr. Marsh absolutely refused his permission for Edgar to accompany Miss Trent to Norfolk when the project was broached to him. He thought, under the circumstances, that it would be pleasanter for his cousins to be without him, he said. However, Cousin Becky begged him to reconsider the matter and to let the boy go with her as a favour to herself, and, reflecting that they were under a great obligation to her, he felt he must give in to her wish.

"It shall be as you please," he said at length; "you have been very kind to us, and it is exceedingly good of you to burden yourself with the charge of our wayward boy. We are deeply indebted to you, indeed."

"You were in trouble and wanted me," said Cousin Becky simply. "I am very glad to have been of use."

The colour deepened in Mrs. Marsh's cheeks as, at that moment, she met the old lady's glance, for she could not help remembering that she had declined to have Cousin Becky beneath her roof as a guest only a few months ago, and she felt suddenly abashed. Perhaps memory was busy, with Cousin Becky, too; if so, her countenance did not show it, and there was nothing but kindness and goodwill in the expression of her bright, dark eyes, though there lurked a slight gleam of humour in their tranquil depths.

CHAPTER XXI

AT THE MILL HOUSE

The Mill House at Lynn was a picturesque old dwelling, with a smooth lawn stretching before its front windows, and a large kitchen garden at the back, beyond which was the mill leat and the big mill wheel, which was silent nowadays; for, like so many small grist-mills, this one did not pay to work. No one at Lynn knew much of the present owner of the Mill House, except that she was an elderly lady who had purchased the house for a country residence some few years previously, though she seldom chose to occupy it. An old man and his wife—Jabez and Sarah Triggs—dwelt there as caretakers; and they made it known in the village, when one day at the commencement of August strangers took possession of the Mill House, that their mistress had lent the house to some friends for a few weeks.

The Trents had been in residence at the Mill House for nearly a fortnight when there arrived a letter from Cousin Becky intimating that she hoped to join them shortly and bring Edgar with her. The news was received with very mingled feelings by the young folks of the family. Like their elders, they had been greatly disappointed at having had to leave Cousin Becky at Beaworthy; but Mr. Trent had arranged the time for his holiday, and Cousin Becky had begged them to go to Norfolk without her, which they had accordingly done. Delighted though they were to know that the old lady would soon be with them to share in their enjoyments, it must be admitted that there was not a member of the Trent family who would not have been better pleased if she had been coming alone; and when, one morning, at the breakfast table, Mrs. Trent put down the letter she had been reading and announced that Cousin Becky and Edgar might be expected on the following day, Polly and Roger exchanged quick glances and became suddenly thoughtful.

"It is good news to hear Edgar is well enough to travel," Mrs. Trent remarked. "I am glad he is making such a quick recovery."

"So am I," rejoined Roger heartily; "but, somehow, I wish he wasn't coming. We've had such a happy time, and he's sure to spoil everything."

"And he's been so horrid to you, Roger!" Polly exclaimed resentfully. "Of course, I've been sorry for him since he's been ill; but think how he's made you suffer for his fault. He didn't mind letting you be thought a thief."

"That's what I feel I can't forgive him for," Roger said, turning crimson with indignation at the remembrance. "When you told me all Aunt Janie had said and I recollected how Uncle John had spoken to me, I—oh, I can't explain what I felt! And even now, when everyone knows it was Edgar himself who lost the Calais Noble, and Uncle John has written me such a nice, kind letter, I can't help being furious against Edgar for letting people think so badly of me."

"He has made all the reparation possible," Mr. Trent said gravely, regarding his little son with a look of understanding and sympathy. "You know, Cousin Becky wrote in her last letter that he had made a clean breast of everything, even to his knowledge of the suspicion his parents had entertained of you. I confess I wish Cousin Becky was coming without him; but, as she has elected to bring him with her, we must make the best of him. Remember, he has been ill, and it will be far more trying for him to meet you. Roger, whom he has wronged, than it will be for you to meet him."

Roger made no answer; but his face wore a very thoughtful expression as he looked out of the open window, his eyes wandering over golden corn fields, dotted with scarlet poppies waving in the pleasant breeze, to distant sand-dunes and woods, between which and the corn fields ran a silvery river on its course to the German Ocean. Here and there was to be seen a windmill with extended sails; but there was no sight of any habitation, for the village of Lynn was only to be seen from the back windows, as it lay between the Mill House and the sea.

"What time are Cousin Becky and Edgar coming, mother?" inquired Polly by-and-by.

"They will arrive at about six o'clock in the evening, my dear. Louisa and I will have to be rather busy this morning, so you must go with your father and Roger, if they will take you."

"Of course we will," Mr. Trent replied, smiling. "We have planned a sail—that is, if the wind is suitable."

"There's Jabez in the garden, let us ask him what he thinks of the weather before we start," said Polly as they all rose from the table.

Accordingly, whilst Mr. Trent lingered conversing with his wife, the children repaired to the front garden to interview Jabez Triggs. He was a tall, old man, whose duty it was to attend to the Mill House gardens. Until the last few years he had been a fisherman, and he was as interesting to talk to as sea-faring people usually are; he had on several occasions greatly entertained Polly and Roger with stories of the wonderful adventures he had experienced in his youthful days, and had been gratified by the attention with which they had listened to him. They thought him the nicest old man they had ever met, and Polly consulted him every morning as to what the weather was likely to be during the day. Sometimes he became quite confidential with her, and once he had told her that his wife, being deaf, had the advantage of him in many ways.

"You see, missie, a man can't argue with a woman who's as deaf as a post," he had said aggrievedly, "and, though, maybe, it's all for the best, it's hard on me, you'll agree. Sarah's a good wife and as trustworthy as—but, there, we're both that, I hope, and Miss Trent knows it, or she wouldn't have put us in charge of the Mill House."

"Did Cousin Becky—that's Miss Trent, you know—get you your situation here?" Polly had inquired curiously.

"Why, of course, missie," the old man had replied, evidently surprised at her question. "She heard tell of Sarah and me in the village—how we were getting up in years and had always been respectable people, and she offered us the post of caretakers, and here we've been for nigh four years now. I often think what a blow it must have been to poor Miss Trent to have lost her brother, so wrapped up in him as she was," the old man had concluded meditatively.

On this particular morning, Jabez Triggs, upon being consulted, foretold a fine day, and declared the fresh wind was blowing the right sort of breeze for a pleasant sail, with no chance of a squall. Then Polly informed him that Miss Trent was expected on the morrow, and his weather-beaten countenance broke into a beaming smile.

"Well, I am pleased to hear it," he said with a glad ring in his voice, "and Sarah will be, too, I'll answer for that. I must run over the grass with the machine this afternoon; but I don't think Miss Trent will find the gardens have been neglected, and she was never one to complain without cause."

The children spent a delightful morning with their father, sailing; and when they returned at dinner-time, they were in high spirits, and their faces, which had already become sun-burnt, glowed with excitement as they proudly presented their mother with several fine mackerel which they had caught by means of a hook and a line. Mrs. Trent had been assisting Louisa to prepare the bedrooms for Cousin Becky and Edgar, and had passed a busy morning; but she was looking very bright, and was not feeling in the least over-tired. The complete change of air and scene was doing her an immense deal of good, and though they had been barely a fortnight at the Mill House, she had lost much of the languor which had characterised her movements during the height of the summer at Beaworthy, and it was no exertion for her to be cheerful now.

"I believe Cousin Becky will find us all looking better," Mr. Trent said complacently. "I know I feel it myself."

And when, on the following evening, Cousin Becky arrived with her pale-faced little companion, her very first words were to exclaim joyfully how well and bright everyone was looking. Edgar found himself greeted very kindly by his aunt and uncle, whilst Polly was quite touched by his wan appearance, and regarded him commiseratingly as she addressed him in a much friendlier tone than she had intended to adopt.

"Dear me, you do look bad," she said candidly. "I don't think I ever saw anyone look worse. Do you feel ill now?"

"No," he answered, "not at all, thank you. I'm all right." Although he was speaking to Polly he was looking at Roger the while. Roger had shaken hands with him, but he had not uttered a word, nor had he met the appealing glance of his cousin's eyes.

"You don't look all right," Polly remarked, "you've altered a great deal. I suppose you are still rather weak, and that makes your voice sound so quivery."

"Of course I feel not quite myself," Edgar admitted. "My head gets dizzy and my legs shake, but I'm getting better every day."

Edgar was sent to bed early on the night of his arrival at the Mill House, for he was naturally very tired after his journey. His aunt came to say good-night to him the last thing before she went to her own room, also Cousin Becky, and his uncle paused at his door to call to him, "Goodnight, Edgar. Pleasant dreams, my boy."

An hour previously he had heard Polly and Roger whispering on the landing; neither of them had entered his room, however, nor spoken to him; and now, when all the household had retired for the night, he lay awake, physically weary, but too troubled to sleep, tortured by the haunting thought that his cousins were displeased he had come. He was unwelcome, he was sure of that, for, though Polly had certainly spoken to him kindly on his arrival—he was grateful to her for having done so—neither she nor her brother had taken any further notice of him during the rest of the evening, and Roger had not even looked at him once.

"I suppose he hates me, and I'm sure it's no wonder," Edgar thought miserably, bursting at last into a flood of tears.

He hid his head under the bed-clothes and tried to stifle his sobs; but Roger, in bed in the next room, on the point of falling asleep, heard them, and was on the alert in a moment. He had determined to keep his cousin at a distance; but the sounds of his passionate weeping made him feel very uneasy. What could be the meaning of Edgar's crying like that?

"I suppose he's doing it because he's been bad," he muttered. "But what a booby he is! He'll make himself ill again if he doesn't mind. I suppose I'd better go and find out what's wrong."

Accordingly he got up, and, stepping noiselessly so as not to disturb the other members of the household, went to Edgar's room. It was not quite dark, for the blinds were not drawn, and the moon was up. Edgar was crying less noisily now; but he did not hear Roger's footsteps approach the bed, so that he started up with a faint cry of surprise and alarm when someone pulled the bed-clothes from off his head and demanded to be told what all the row was about.

"Oh, Roger," he gasped. "Is it you?"

"Yes. What are you blubbering about?" Roger asked bluntly. "I can't sleep if you go on like that—crying like a girl! Why, Polly wouldn't do it. She'd be ashamed."

"I'm very sorry," whimpered Edgar, "but I—I can't help it."

"Are you feeling ill?" Roger questioned more gently. "If that's it, I'd better speak to mother or Cousin Becky."

"No, no. I'm not ill; it's only that I'm so miserable because of the way I've behaved about—about you."

"So you ought to be!"

"I know, I know! I'm very sorry, Roger, I am, indeed!"

"I should just think you are! But it's no good howling about it and keeping me awake. Do shut up and go to sleep." Roger spoke gruffly, but in his heart of hearts he was sorry for his cousin's distress. The moonlight showed him such a wan, thin face, with big, hollow, blue eyes which sought his wistfully. "I daresay you feel pretty bad in your mind," he proceeded, "I should if I were you; but Cousin Becky wrote that Aunt Janie and Uncle John had forgiven you everything, and—"

"Yes; but you haven't forgiven me," Edgar interrupted with a sob. "Don't you think you ever will?"

"I—I—I have," Roger answered slowly. "I didn't think I could, but I have. I couldn't say, 'Our Father' if I hadn't. And, look here, don't talk any more about it—that will help me to forget."

"Oh, Roger!" There was amazement and a world of thankfulness in Edgar's eager voice. "I've been so mean, so cowardly," he said deprecatingly, "and you—you're such a brick!"

"Oh, shut up!" Roger responded impolitely, with a yawn. "Do lie down and go to sleep. I'm going back to bed, I'm getting quite cold. What are you doing?" he cried, as the other flung his arms around his neck and, in a transport of gratitude, kissed him upon the cheek. "I don't know what's come to you to-night," he continued when his cousin released him and he retreated towards the door. "What do you think the boys at school would say if they saw you do that? We're not girls. I shan't tell Polly; but—mind you don't do it again."

"I won't," Edgar promised. "I don't know what made me then, only I felt I must because—because you're been so awfully good to me."

Then as Roger's white-clad figure stole out of the room, and he was alone once more, he lay himself back in bed thinking that surely this cousin of his was the noblest, most generous boy in the world. He had not deserved Roger's forgiveness, that he knew well; he had been treated far, far better than he had deserved.

CHAPTER XXII

AN UNFORESEEN EXPERIENCE

It was wonderful how quickly Edgar improved in health and spirits after his arrival at the Mill House. In a very few days he was able to join his cousins in their amusements, and showed no sign of spoiling their pleasure as they had feared he would do. Surely some great change had taken place in the boy to make him so different from the old Edgar, who had set his own pleasure above every other consideration, for now, though the selfishness he had cultivated so long peeped out occasionally, he was evidently trying to check it, and—a more difficult task still—he was earnestly endeavouring to be straightforward in word and deed. Much to his relief no one mentioned the subject of the Calais Noble, not even Polly, who, however, made him give her a description of his accident, afterwards remarking that it could have been actually no worse than a nightmare such as she had frequently experienced herself when she had dreamt of falling over a precipice and had awakened to find herself safe in bed.

"Yes, it was just like that," Edgar replied, "only I awoke with a frightful headache. Wasn't I surprised to see Cousin Becky there! Mother says she shall never be able to repay her for her kindness to me."

"And yet Aunt Janie wouldn't ask her to stay at the Rookery when she wrote about coming to Beaworthy," Polly reminded him, for she had an excellent memory. "Cousin Becky belongs more to us than she does to you, Edgar, you must see that," she added; and her cousin did not argue the point.

All too quickly the August days passed by, and Mr. Trent's three weeks' holiday was nearly spent when he received a letter—as welcome as it was unexpected—from his employer, telling him he could be spared from the office for another week. Everyone was delighted, and Polly fairly lost her head and capered round the dining-room in her excitement on learning the contents of her uncle's letter.

"A whole week longer in this beautiful place!" she exclaimed ecstatically. "Oh, I do hope the weather will continue fine so that we can spend most of the time out-of-doors! What are we all going to do to-day?"

"I intend to hire a pony carriage—there is one to be had in the village—and take your mother and Cousin Becky for a drive this afternoon, Polly," her father informed her. "So you young people will have to find your own amusements."

"We can easily do that," she replied; and the boys agreed.

Accordingly, after dinner, when their elders had started for their drive, the children, left to their own devices, wandered through the village to the beach. The tide was out, and they walked round the cliffs, pretending they were explorers in a strange country where they had to guard against sudden attacks from wild beasts and savages. This game amused them for some time; but it was tiring making their way on the wet sand, and when they came to a pretty little cove, they sat down beneath the shelter of the cliffs to rest.

"We're safe here," remarked Edgar, "because if the tide came in and we couldn't get back to Lynn by the shore, the cliffs are not very steep, we could easily climb them."

"Yes I but it takes the tide a long time to come in," Polly replied. "I don't think it's low water yet."

"Oh yes, it is," corrected her cousin. "Jabez Triggs told me it would be low water at three o'clock, and it must be quite that. Why, it's past four," he amended, as he took out his watch and looked at it. "How the afternoon has flown!"

"And what an age we've been coming here!" exclaimed Roger, surprised at the time.

"We've had a fine game," said the little girl, taking off her broad-brimmed straw hat and fanning her hot face with it. "How we shall think and talk of all the fun we've had here when we get home—to Beaworthy, I mean! I wonder if we shall come to the Mill House another year? I asked Cousin Becky, and she said it was quite possible."

"I never enjoyed a holiday so much in my life before," Edgar declared. "I'd much rather stay at a village than at a larger place. Last year we went to Bournemouth, and I had a dreadfully slow time. I say, what an old chap Jabez Triggs is, isn't he?"

"Yes, but I like him," Roger answered, "he tells such exciting stories. What do you think he told me yesterday? Why, that not very many years ago there were acres of land between the village and the sea, and now you know the houses are close to the beach."

"How's that?" questioned Polly.

"Because the sea is gradually sucking away the land," her brother explained.

"Some people believe there are villages buried beneath the sea, and the fisher folk say they can sometimes hear the bells ringing in church towers—"

"Under the sea?" interposed Edgar unbelievingly.

"Yes, but perhaps that's not true, they may only fancy it," Roger admitted. "But Jabez says every storm takes away a bit of the land, that's quite certain. He remembers when he was a boy that a whole row of cottages was washed away one night; he pointed out to me the spot where they used to stand, and even when it's low tide it's covered with deep water now."

Polly gave a little shudder, and listened in silence whilst her companions continued their conversation. She was glad there had been no storm during their sojourn at the Mill House, for the thought of the encroaching sea was somewhat alarming to her mind.

"I think it's about time we went home," she observed at length, as she put on her hat and rose to her feet. "The tide seems to be coming in very fast now, so we ought to be going, for I know one can only get to this cove at low water."

"Polly is nervous," said Roger teasingly. "All right, we'll come; but there's no need to hurry."

The little girl was not certain of that; however, she held her peace and walked ahead of the boys in the direction of the point which hid the cove from sight of the village of Lynn. By-and-by she turned and came running back. "It's no good going on," she informed them, a startled expression in her eyes, "for the tide's come in, and—and—" She paused, looking anxiously at the cliffs which she knew they would now be obliged to climb, and she shuddered as she reflected how easily she became giddy. "I wish we'd turned back before," she added with a tremble in her voice.

The boys hastened on to the point, but they could not get around it, for, as Polly had represented to them, the sea had come in, and they were cut off from Lynn. However, they were not in the least dismayed.

"This is something like an adventure," Roger said as he and his cousin joined his sister again. "Why, Polly, how scared you look! We can easily get home by the cliffs."

"You may, but I can't," Polly replied despondently. "I shall be sure to get giddy and fall."

"Oh, nonsense!" her brother exclaimed impatiently. "You'll be all right. I'll go ahead and give you a hand. It will be rare fun, you'll see."

Polly doubted it, and the expression of her face was so dolorous that her companions both burst out laughing. Greatly offended, she turned from them and made her way towards the base of the cliffs, her figure held very upright—as though she had swallowed a poker, as she heard Roger tell Edgar—and her heart indignant against her brother and cousin alike. Her eyes were full of angry tears which blurred her sight; and perhaps that accounted for what followed; for, suddenly, she slipped on a piece of seaweed and fell, twisting her ankle as she did so.

"Oh, Polly, you should be more careful!" exclaimed Roger as he darted forward and assisted his sister to get up. She clung to him for a minute, then sank back on the ground. "What's the matter?" he asked anxiously.

"I've hurt my foot, Roger; I can't go any further."

"But, Polly, you must," he insisted, with a swift glance seawards.

"And I tell you I can't," she said, beginning to cry. "I can't walk, it—it hurts me."

"Oh, here's a pretty kettle of fish!" cried Roger, looking despairingly at his sister.

"Can't you really walk, Polly?" questioned Edgar. "At any rate, try."

She made the attempt; but the few steps she took caused her keen pain; to climb the cliff was out of the question. "She can't do it," Edgar said decidedly. "It's cruel to try and make her. Don't cry, Polly. We'll go back to Lynn and get a boat to fetch you."

"But supposing the tide comes up before you have time to get the boat here?" she inquired. "It's coming in very fast. Oh, do you mean to say you are going to leave me alone?"

"One of us will stay with you if you wish it," said Roger, beginning to realise the gravity of their position. "I'll stay whilst Edgar—"

"No, you go, Roger, because you'll be quicker than I could be," Edgar interrupted. "You can run much faster than I can, and when you reach the top of the cliff you must run all the way to Lynn, because—because I think there isn't much time to waste," he concluded in rather a trembling tone.

"Yes, yes, you go, Roger," urged Polly eagerly, for she had more confidence in her brother than in her cousin. "Edgar's quite right, he wouldn't be so quick as you."

"All right, then; I'm off," Roger answered. "I won't be longer than I can possibly help. Don't get low-spirited, Polly."

They watched him nimbly climb the side of the cliff, which presented no difficulties to him, for he was sure-footed and possessed a steady head. On reaching the summit he shouted and waved his handkerchief encouragingly, then disappeared from view. Polly heaved a sigh of relief, and expressed a hope that they would not have a great while to wait, to which her companion made no response. He was watching the incoming tide, and trying to calculate how long it would be before it would reach the bottom of the cliffs; he trusted nothing would happen to delay Roger on his mission.

"It's good of you to stay with me," Polly said gratefully, at length. "I suppose it was selfish of me not to want to be left alone. Isn't it nearly time for the boat to come?"

Edgar shook his head and he became silent, whilst they both listened to the soft lap-lap of the waves as they slowly drew nearer and nearer. Polly crouched on the ground close to the cliff, her face pale and frightened, and Edgar stood by her side, eagerly watching the point around which the expected boat must appear. Slowly the time dragged on until Roger had been gone more than an hour, and only about a dozen yards of sand divided the children from the water now.

"What shall we do if the tide comes right up to us?" asked Polly, in a voice which betrayed the intensest anxiety. "Shall you climb up the cliff?"

"And leave you? No, no, I won't do that. But I think we shall see a boat soon now. I wonder which of us will see it first."

He tried to speak cheerily for the sake of his companion, but a sense of terrible fear and hopelessness was creeping over him. He glanced at Polly; but instead of watching for the boat, she had covered her face with her hands, and he guessed she was praying. Then from the depths of his heart he prayed, too; and, mingled with his earnest petition for deliverance from the incoming tide was the prayer that, whatever happened, he might not, on this occasion, prove himself a coward.

CHAPTER XXIII

RESCUED

NEARER and nearer the sea approached the cliffs; on—on it came, until at length a little rippling wave out-did its fellows and flowed in almost to the children's feet. Polly uttered a shriek of terror, and clutched her cousin by the arm.

"Oh, Edgar, we shall be drowned!" she wailed. "What can we do? Oh, what can we do?"

"We must try to climb a short way up the cliff, Polly," he replied, endeavouring to speak reassuringly and hide his own alarm. "Come, I'll help you. I'm sure you can do it if you will only try."

"I can't, I can't! Oh, Edgar, you had better leave me; you'll be drowned, too, if you stay here. Oh, I'm so frightened, but—but you mustn't stay with me any longer. Go! Go!"

"I shall do no such thing," he declared stoutly. "But I do think you're very silly and—and unkind not to try to climb a short distance. Would you rather stay here and let us both be drowned?"

"No, no! But my foot hurts me so dreadfully if I rest on it."

"If you could manage to get as far as there," Edgar said persuasively, indicating a ledge of rock not far above their heads, "we should be safe for another half-hour; do try, Polly. See—" and he climbed a few feet up the cliff, "give me your hand, and try to bear the pain."

There was a minute or two of great anxiety as Polly, driven to desperation, clutched his hand, and, with many exclamations and groans, scrambled after him and perched herself on the ledge, by his side, in comparative safety.

"Oh, my foot!" she sobbed, as she leaned against the cliff and tenderly felt her injured ankle. "Oh, I'm so giddy! I dare not look down."

"Well, don't," he replied. "I'm sorry your foot is hurting you so much, but aren't you glad you're here?"

"Yes, of course I am. I—I don't want to be drowned. Oh, surely we shall see a boat coming soon! What can Roger be doing to be so long?"

"It isn't long, really but it seems a great while."

There was silence after that for some time; still there was no sign of the expected boat. Polly was crying hopelessly now, and Edgar felt very inclined to do the same; but he manfully strove to retain his composure and to hearten his companion. Venturing to peep downwards at length, the little girl was horrified to note how high the water had risen—very soon it would reach them again.

"Edgar, I can't climb any higher," she said tremulously, "I really can't."

"No, Polly," he answered, and she caught the tone of despair in his voice.

"I—I don't want you to stay with me any longer," she faltered. "I—I'd rather you'd go. It would be dreadful for Aunt Janie and Uncle John if you were drowned. It's no good your staying."

Edgar made no response, and he did not move. Escape was so easy for him, but he had no intention of leaving his cousin to her fate, and all that was noblest and best in his character arose to kill the selfish desire for personal safety against which he had been fighting since Roger had gone.

"Are you not going?" the little girl asked by-and-by. "No?" she said wonderingly as he shook his head.

"You mean to say you will stay even when the sea comes up to the ledge? Oh, you must not!"

"It's very brave of you to speak like that," he replied earnestly, "but I'm not going to leave you. I'm not such a coward as you think. I mean to wait with you till—till Roger comes with a boat to rescue us."

She made no answer in words, but the look she gave him was eloquent of the deepest gratitude, not unmixed with admiration, for, at that moment, he appeared a veritable hero in her sight. She crept close to him and caught his hand in her chill, trembling fingers, and thus they crouched together for a while longer, watching the white-winged sea gulls passing to and fro, and ever and again turning their anxious eyes in the direction from which help must come.

At last, when the tide was within a few inches of the ledge of rock, a boat appeared in sight, and springing to his feet, Edgar pulled out his handkerchief and waved it wildly.

"Take care!" cried Polly. "Don't fall! Oh, don't fall!"

"Is the boat corning for us, do you think?"

"Yes, yes," he answered excitedly. "I can see Roger in the bow, and—yes—Uncle Martin, too! There are two fishermen rowing. Oh, Polly, we're saved! Oh, how thankful I am!"

"Are you certain they see us?" the little girl asked, rubbing her eyes, which were full of tears—tears of glad relief and joy now.

"Oh yes, yes! They're coming straight towards us as fast as ever they can. It will be all right now, Polly."

Ten minutes later the children had been rescued from their hazardous position and in little more than half an hour afterwards, the two stalwart fishermen who plied the oars ran the boat high and dry upon the beach at Lynn, where quite half the village had assembled, as well as Mrs. Trent and Cousin Becky, all anxious to be assured of the young folks' safety. Polly, on account of her injured foot, had to be carried to the Mill House, and made the journey in her father's arms, whilst her mother walked by her side, listening, with breathless interest, to her account of all that had occurred. Cousin Becky followed with the boys; and Roger explained to Edgar that he had had some difficulty in getting a boat, and when he had at length succeeded in his quest and had been on the point of starting, his father, who had meanwhile returned from his drive, had come down to the beach and been just in time to accompany him.

"Father was dreadfully frightened," Roger said, "and the fishermen were awfully grave, for you know the tide will rise much higher yet. It would have been all right if Polly had not hurt her foot, for she could have climbed the cliff as well as I did, though, of course, she would have made a fuss. It was very kind of you to stay with her, Edgar. Don't you think so?" he asked of Cousin Becky.

"Very kind and very brave," she answered promptly. "I am sure every one must think so."

Cousin Becky was right, for it was unanimously agreed that Edgar was the hero of the occasion. His heart swelled with pleasure when his uncle spoke of his pluck, and his aunt kissed him and thanked him gratefully for his consideration for her little girl.

"I couldn't have climbed any higher," Polly declared with a shudder as, later on, having had her ankle bathed and bandaged, she reclined upon the sofa in the sitting-room and was waited upon by Roger, who brought her her tea, "and Edgar wouldn't go even when I told him to and said I'd rather he did. I'm afraid that wasn't quite true, because I was so frightened at the thought of being alone, but I didn't want to be selfish. Oh, Roger, do you remember that we didn't wish him to come to Lynn? I'm sure I should have been drowned to-day if hadn't been for him. He made me climb up to that ledge of rock, and if I hadn't—"

"Don't talk of it any more," Roger broke in. "It was awfully fine of Edgar to behave as he did. I'm glad I forgave him for the way he treated me about the Calais Noble," he added, "for he's made up for everything now."

"I shall tell him what you say," Polly returned. And she kept her word, thereby giving her cousin the keenest pleasure he had experienced for many a day.

The sprain to the little girl's ankle did not prove a severe one; but, much to her dismay—for she soon tired of playing the role of an interesting invalid—it tied her to the sofa for several days, and she begrudged the time thus wasted indoors. Therefore, when one evening Cousin Becky made a suggestion that she and the young people should remain at the Mill House until the middle of September, whilst Mr. and Mrs. Trent and Louisa returned to Beaworthy at the date which had previously been arranged, Polly's delight was boundless. "Jabez and Sarah Triggs will look after our comforts," Cousin Becky said when Mrs. Trent began to demur, "and if I want further help I can get it from the village. It seems a pity to take the children home just at present."

"But will it not appear as though we are presuming on your friend's good-nature?" began Mrs. Trent doubtfully; then, catching the humorous expression in Cousin Becky's dark eyes, she paused and looked at her inquiringly.

There was a brief silence, during which everyone gazed curiously at the old lady, who had grown rosy red and seemed more than a little confused.

"I can answer for my friend," she said at length. "She will not think you in the least presumptuous."

"She must be a dear old thing!" exclaimed Polly. "I should like to see her and tell her what I think of her."

"So should I," agreed Roger.

"I am not certain we have not all seen her," Mr. Trent said in a deliberate tone. "I am not certain that we do not know her very well." Then, as Cousin Becky started and looked at him quickly, he continued: "Isn't it time for the good fairy to reveal herself? Surely she might show herself in her true colours now?"

"Oh, Martin, you have guessed?" cried the old lady.

"I have suspected you ever since we came to the Mill House," he replied gravely. "I have heard you spoken of in the village as the owner of this place, and Jabez always mentioned you as though you were his employer. I have never asked any questions; and Sarah, being deaf, has been unable to converse with any of us, or doubtless we should have learnt the truth from her. You are the mistress of the Mill House, Cousin Becky, and we are really your guests; we have no one to thank but you."

"Yes," Cousin Becky acknowledged, "that is so. My secret has been a harmless one, and I have enjoyed keeping it. No wonder you all look puzzled!" She laughed as she met the bewildered glances of Mrs. Trent and the young people. "Let me explain. You took it for granted I was poor, and I did not undeceive you, for your sympathy was very sweet to me, and I was very lonely and sad. One may be rich in pocket and very poor in other ways. If you had known me to be well off, you would not have invited me to visit you or offered me a share of your home, and I should have been the loser then. You have known me hitherto as 'poor Cousin Becky,' but you will not love me the less now, will you, because you know I am not poor? You will let me keep the places in your hearts which I believe I have won; and, because you have given to me, you will not deny me the happiness of giving to you?"

"You are not poor," murmured Mrs. Trent in bewilderment, "and the Mill House is yours, and we never guessed it—at least, it seems Martin did! Oh, Cousin Becky, it appears incredible you could keep this secret to yourself! How blind we must all have been!"

"Then it is you who are our good fairy," said Polly, putting her arms around the old lady's neck and hugging her in a transport of affection and delight. "Oh, how glad I am! How wonderful it all is, like a real fairy tale, isn't it? Oh, boys, aren't you surprised? I am, and so very, very pleased!" And she hugged her again.

"You'll let the children stay at the Mill House with me, won't you?" Cousin Becky asked as soon as Polly would allow her to speak. Then, as Mr. and Mrs. Trent both gave assent, she added, "I feel sure Janie will let Edgar remain, too and when you see her, Mary, as you will be sure to do on your return to Beaworthy, you can explain matters to her."

"Won't she be astonished to hear Cousin Becky's not poor, Edgar?" whispered Roger to his cousin.

"Rather," was the emphatic answer, "but I am sure she will be very glad."

CHAPTER XXIV

CONCLUSION

EDGAR had spoken truly when he had said that his mother would be very glad to hear that Cousin Becky was not poor; but her first sensation on hearing the news, which she learnt from her sister-in-law's lips, was one of the deepest humiliation. By her timely assistance during Edgar's illness, Cousin Becky had won Mrs. Marsh's lasting gratitude; and the mistress of the Rookery had determined to see a great deal more of the old lady in the future, and had meant to be very kind to her in return for kindnesses received.

"The Mill House belongs to Cousin Becky and she is really very well off!" she cried, after Mrs. Trent had succeeded in making her understand the disconcerting truth. "Why, I never heard anything so extraordinary Never!"

"It appears Cousin Becky had considerable property left to her about ten years ago by a relation of her mother's," Mrs. Trent explained. "She never thought of mentioning that when she wrote about coming to Beaworthy, and we all took it for granted that she was badly off. On her arrival, she saw at once the mistake we had made; but I don't think we have any right to blame her for keeping her true position a secret from us. She did not deceive us; as a matter-of-fact, she never mentioned her affairs at all."

"I always wondered why she did not tell you her exact position," Mrs. Marsh admitted; "but, of course, she had a right to keep her business to herself. It is very kind of her to have the children at the Mill House, and I am pleased to let Edgar stay. By-the-by, I suppose she will not return here?"

"It is her intention to do so. She wishes to continue living with us. I think she has become attached to us all, and we are certainly very fond of her."

"You were always her champions," Mrs. Marsh replied, with a somewhat regretful sigh; "and I so feared she would prove a burden to you! I thought it very unwise of Martin to have her here, and I was vexed with you all for making so much of her. Ah, well, I learnt to value Cousin Becky at her true worth when she came to us in our trouble and nursed our boy in his sickness. You have no idea, Mary, how good she was to him; and he confessed to her what he had feared to confess to his father or me, all about the Calais Noble, and—and—"

"We won't say anything more about that," Mrs. Trent interrupted gently as her companion hesitated and looked distressed. "It was a painful business; but Roger and Edgar are good friends now, and we won't revert to the past. How do you think your brother is looking?"

"Capital," Mrs. Marsh answered heartily, "and as for you, Mary, you are actually quite rosy and not nearly so painfully thin as you were a month ago. Norfolk air has done wonders for you."

When Cousin Becky and the children returned to Beaworthy, in September, they all brought a fund of health and good spirits as well as the happiest memories of a pleasant holiday with them. Edgar, who had left home wan and thin, was "as plump as a partridge and as brown as a gypsy," so his father declared at the dinner-table on the night of his arrival when the little boy dined with his parents and entertained them with accounts of his doings at Lynn. They had heard all about his experience with Polly when she had sprained her ankle, so he did not dwell on that story but, on chancing to mention it, his father remarked: "I was glad to hear my son did not play the coward," and he met the gaze of his mother's eyes full of a tender, loving light, and his heart thrilled with happiness, whilst he determined never, if he could possibly help it, to do anything to grieve his parents or make them ashamed of him again. That night, ere he went to bed, he sought and found the cigarettes, which he had secreted so many months before at the bottom of a drawer in the set of drawers in his bedroom. Whilst at the Mill House, he had often wondered if they would be discovered in his absence, and what would be thought of him for having hidden them, for he had forgotten to get rid of them before leaving home. It was a weight off his mind to be able to destroy them now; so he tore them to pieces, which he flung out of the window. That done, he went to bed happy, glad to be at home once more, and grateful to his parents for having made no reference to the past.

Within a week of the return of Cousin Becky and the young people to Beaworthy the Grammar School reopened and work-a-day life recommenced for Roger and Edgar; whilst Polly, much to her satisfaction, found that she, too, was to be sent to school.

"I believe it's Cousin Becky's doing," the little girl said confidentially to her brother. "And, do you know," she continued in her most impressive manner, "I'm almost certain it was Cousin Becky who used to send Sarah Glubb those postal orders when her husband was in the hospital. I asked her about it yesterday, and she laughed and told me not to be inquisitive, but I'm sure I'm right."

"I daresay you are," Roger replied. "How amused she must have been to hear us discussing who Sarah's good fairy could be! It must be nice to be rich, Polly, to be able to do people good turns like that."

"Aunt Janie said father would rue the day when he took the charge of an old woman who never had the least claim upon him," remarked Polly, who had recollected the exact words her aunt had used, and had often pondered over them; "but she was wrong. She didn't know Cousin Becky properly then or she would not have said it. Mother says Cousin Becky has been a real blessing to us, and—"

"And I'm sure she was a blessing to Aunt Janie when Edgar was ill," broke in Roger eagerly.

"Yes, that was when Aunt Janie found out what Cousin Becky was really like," nodded Polly.

Better days were coming for the Trent family; that is to say, days when good fortune was to shine upon them once more. Shortly before Christmas, Mr. Trent returned home one evening with the news that the head clerk in the clay office was retiring, and Mr. Marsh had offered him the post, which was a responsible one with a very good salary attached to it; and early in the new year he took a pretty house in the suburbs of the town, whither, in due course, he removed his family. Of course, this new abode was in no wise to be compared with the Rookery in any way, but to the Trents it seemed quite a palatial residence after the house in Princess Street, and it possessed a small garden which was a source of endless pleasure to Polly, who, always a lover of flowers, took up gardening with a will, and retained an especially sunny spot for her own cultivation.

One Saturday afternoon, in spring time, the little girl was occupied in her favourite recreation when Mrs. Marsh's carriage drew up at the garden gate, and Mrs. Marsh herself descended from it. Polly went immediately to meet her, and returned her kiss cordially, for there was a better understanding between the two than there had been formerly.

"I'm not going to stay," Mrs. Marsh said as she slipped a small package into her niece's hand. "Take that, my dear, and give it to Roger, will you?"

"He's not at home, Aunt Janie," Polly replied; "but I'll give it to him the moment he comes in."

"It's a present from his uncle and me for his birthday, to-morrow," Mrs. Marsh explained. "I hope he will like it. No, I can't stay to come in, thank you. Give my love to your mother and Cousin Becky." And she went back to her carriage and was driven away.

Naturally Polly was all impatience till her brother returned, when he promptly opened the package, and revealed to sight a handsome silver watch, similar to Edgar's, which he had always greatly admired. His amazement and delight were unbounded, and he could not understand why his aunt and uncle had remembered his birthday this year, when they had never done so before; but his parents rightly conjectured that Mr. and Mrs. Marsh had awaited an opportunity to make him this present as a slight amends for the unjust suspicion which had been entertained of him.

Roger and his cousin were the best of friends with each other now; and if Edgar was ever tempted to turn away from the path of truth, the thought of the Calais Noble and all the trouble it had caused returned to his mind to warn him that deception brings nothing but unhappiness in its train. Certainly his father was stricter with him than he had been of old, but he was not less kind; and if his mother was still over-indulgent, he no longer tried to take advantage of her affection to gain his own selfish ends as he had once been in the habit of doing.

There remains little else to be told. A few more words about Cousin Becky and her champions, and then my story is at an end. Cousin Becky still continues to make her home with those who so hospitably opened their doors to her when they believed her to be as poor as themselves and she is still the owner of the Mill House, which she often lends to those of her acquaintances who, otherwise, would not be able to afford holidays, and sometimes she visits it herself. She is on excellent terms with all her relations at Beaworthy, and is always a welcome guest at the Rookery now; but the warmest, tenderest spot in the old lady's heart, next to that occupied by her dead brother's children, is reserved for those who loved "poor Cousin Becky" and proved themselves her champions without thought of reward.

THE END

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Table of Contents

- A PERILOUS SITUATION.

- COUSIN BECKY'S CHAMPIONS

- AUTHOR OF "ROBIN OF SUN COURT," "GRANFER AND ONE CHRISTMAS TIME," ETC.

- WITH TWO FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY ISABEL WATKIN

- LONDON NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY
- 1909
- CONTENTS
- LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

- COUSIN BECKY'S CHAMPIONS

- CHAPTER I

- THE HOME IN PRINCESS STREET

- CHAPTER II

- WHY AUNT JANIE CALLED

- CHAPTER III

- AT THE ROOKERY

- CHAPTER IV

- COUSIN BECKY'S ARRIVAL AT BEAWORTHY

- CHAPTER V

- AFTER THE SNOWSTORM

- CHAPTER VI

- "SHOWING OFF"

- CHAPTER VII

- SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT THE ROOKERY

- CHAPTER VIII

- COUSIN BECKY FINDS A HOME

- COUSIN BECKY AND POLLY.

- CHAPTER IX

- A MORNING WALK

- CHAPTER X

- BROUGHT TO BOOK

- CHAPTER XI

- IN THE CLOCK CASE

- CHAPTER XII

- COUSIN BECKY TELLS A SECRET

- CHAPTER XIII

- THE CALAIS NOBLE

- CHAPTER XIV

- MR. MARSH DISCOVERS HIS LOSS

- CHAPTER XV

- EDGAR LEARNS HIS FATHER'S SUSPICIONS

- CHAPTER XVI

- UNDER A CLOUD

- CHAPTER XVII

- IN VIEW OF A HOLIDAY

- CHAPTER XVIII

- THE REAPPEARANCE OF THE CALAIS NOBLE

- CHAPTER XIX

- AN ACCIDENT TO EDGAR

- CHAPTER XX

- COUSIN BECKY TAKEN INTO CONFIDENCE

- CHAPTER XXI

- AT THE MILL HOUSE

- CHAPTER XXII

- AN UNFORESEEN EXPERIENCE

- CHAPTER XXIII

- RESCUED

- CHAPTER XXIV

- CONCLUSION

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE