The Project Gutenberg eBook of Legend-led

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Title: Legend-led

Author: Amy Le Feuvre

Release date: May 28, 2025 [eBook #76174]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1899

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76174

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LEGEND-LED ***

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

THE END OF THE JOURNEY.

LEGEND-LED

By AMY LE FEUVRE

AUTHOR OF "PROBABLE SONS," "TEDDY'S BUTTON,"

"ON THE EDGE OF A MOOR," "ODD," ETC.

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

56 PATERNOSTER ROW AND

65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD

BUTLER & TANNER

THE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKS

FROME, AND LONDON.

Contents

CHAPTER I

AN OLD QUEST

CHAPTER II

TRYING TO FIND

CHAPTER III

ALMOST SUCCESSFUL

CHAPTER IV

A CRIPPLED KNIGHT

CHAPTER V

THE "OGRE'S" ARRIVAL

CHAPTER VI

A GREAT DISAPPOINTMENT

CHAPTER VII

ADVISING THE ENEMY

CHAPTER VIII

NIGHT WANDERERS

CHAPTER IX

A STRANGE AWAKENING

CHAPTER X

CLAIMED

CHAPTER XI

A GLIMMER OF LIGHT

CHAPTER XII

THE REBELLION

CHAPTER XIII

THE "HOLY THING"

THE STORY OF THE HOLY GRAIL.

LEGEND-LED

CHAPTER I

An Old Quest

IT was a very warm afternoon in July. In a front room with a large bay window overlooking the sea and beach at F— were the three little Thurstons; and they were having their tea at a round table, presided over by their governess, Miss Gubbins. The atmosphere was close; the children's faces hot, and—if I may say it—sticky; and Miss Gubbins leant back in her chair fanning herself with a newspaper and watching her charges in lazy wonder, as they ate slice after slice of bread and butter, and emptied a large plate of prawns between them, talking ceaselessly as they did so.

Donald, the eldest, was a bright, handsome little fellow, who thought and acted for himself, and was generally in trouble through his independent spirit. Claud was fair and sturdy, had quite as strong a will as Donald, but was always willing to take advice; and Gypsy, as she was called, and whose proper name was Eleanor, was a quicksilvery, gentle-looking little maiden, with a fragile appearance and a spirit as high as either of her two brothers.

"A reg'lar handful!" pronounced the landlady, who had now had them as her lodgers for some years. "The plagues of the terrace!" pronounced the two quiet maiden ladies next door.

"And the dearest children in the world when they're good," Miss Gubbins would say.

Miss Gubbins took life very easily. She always dressed in grey, was very short-sighted, and had a passionate love for poetry, which love she tried to foster in her young charges. She was not a young woman, but had a simple freshness of mind and heart that always kept her in touch with children. Her rule was not a severe one, and except in the three hours of morning study, her little pupils were left very much to their own devices. Good principles she sought to instil into their minds, and beyond this she did not go.

She sat now, as she often did, listening to the conversation, but taking no part in it unless she was appealed to.

"Old Cole said he'd lend me some red paint, and I'll do it in letters large as life," said Donald, with a little swagger in his tone.

"What will you put on it?" asked Claud thoughtfully, as he sucked a prawn's head and put it on the edge of his plate with a sigh, to think that he could get no more out of it.

"The resident's property."

"What grand words!" And Gypsy opened her blue eyes to their widest extent.

"Trespassers will be prosecuted!" continued Donald.

"What does prosecute mean?" asked Gypsy.

"Burnt at the stake, and cut up in little pieces, and drowned, and arms and legs twisted off, and eyes put out with red hot pokers!" said Claud with cheerful assurance.

"That's persecuted, you booby!"

Donald's tone was contemptuous. He added, "And if that won't keep the visitors off our corner, I'll fight every one of them!"

"You wouldn't beat them. You might the mother's children, but not the nursery ones, nor the schoolroom ones; and there are two sets of schoolroom ones coming to-morrow, the Stevens, and the Burkes who were here last year!"

"I shall get old Cole to help me."

"And I'll help you too, and I'll put on my boots, because the kicks will hurt more!"

This was from Gypsy, whose eyes sparkled in anticipation of a coming contest.

Then Miss Gubbins spoke.

"What are you all talking about? Don't let me hear of you fighting any one!"

"Well, it's our bit of beach, it has got the big rock on it, and the longest breakwater, and we're residents, aren't we, Gubby? And the visitor children aren't going to drive us from it—two boys tried it on this afternoon—and we'll let them know who we are!"

Donald spoke excitedly, and flourished his teacup in his hand like a war club.

"And they were only nursery children, too!" cried Claud with scorn.

"I don't understand what you mean by 'nursery children,'" said Miss Gubbins.

"Oh, Gubby, you know! We told you the other day; they are the ones that live in a nursery, of course. All the children that come here belong to three lots. The schoolroom ones come with their governess or from school; they're the jolliest. Some of the nursery ones aren't bad, but the nurses are horrid, and the mother's children are worst of all! They have company manners and best frocks and kid gloves, and always live in the drawing-room!"

Miss Gubbins smiled.

Donald went on: "And the residents always come first, before the visitors. The beach belongs to us in the winter, and we aren't going to give up our pet corner in the summer for any wretched little visitor!"

"You will not be residents here much longer," said Miss Gubbins, rousing herself; "I am only waiting till you have done tea to tell you about it. I heard from your step-brother this morning."

There were shouts at this. "The Ogre!" "Is he coming to see us?" "What did he say?"

Miss Gubbins would not satisfy any curiosity until the tea things were removed, hands and faces washed, and a tidy little group gathered round her.

The children were always curious when there was any correspondence between Victor Thurston and their governess. He was almost a stranger to them. He had been abroad when his father had married a young wife, and never saw the children till after their mother's death, which occurred when Gypsy was born. Then he came home for a few months, as his father was taken ill, and followed his second wife to the grave within six months of her death. Victor made arrangements for the children to be taken to Miss Gubbins, who was a friend of their mother, and she had come into rooms with them at the seaside, where they had remained ever since. And then Victor had gone abroad again, and, beyond a short visit one summer, during which he inspired the children with the greatest awe, he had not been near them.

"Do tell us, Gubby, quick!" pleaded Claud. "Is he coming here?"

"No, but we are going to him. Now don't scream so, and I will tell you. An uncle of yours has died, and has left your brother an old house in the country. He says it is too large for him to live in alone, and he wants us to go there at once."

"The Ogre's Castle! Hip, hip, hurrah! Are we going to-morrow?"

"The end of next week."

"And is he there?"

"No, he will not come till a month later, he says."

"Then we shall do just as we like, and you'll give us a holiday, like a dear good Gubby, won't you?"

"I shall see."

"Do tell us what it is like, and if there are dungeons, and secret rooms?"

"I know nothing about it. Now, you mustn't worry me with questions, but have patience, for we shall soon be there."

There was much excitement about the coming change; but, when they had quieted down, Miss Gubbins told them she would read to them as usual, as the tide was in, and they could not go out on the beach. This was a custom of hers nearly every evening, and she had been half telling, half reading, Tennyson's thrilling tale of King Arthur and his knights.

To-night she chose the "Holy Grail," and, mystical as it was, the little ones' shining eyes and rapt attention told her how much they had enjoyed it.

They drew long breaths when she finished.

"And Galahad never came back," said Claud, dreamily looking out to the sunset sky across the bay. "It's rather sad, but it's lovely!"

"I shouldn't like to be too good," said Donald meditatively; "that's what people mean when they say some children are too good to live. They're afraid of being caught away like Sir Galahad!"

Gypsy said nothing. She sat with clasped hands on a footstool, her pretty little face unusually grave. In her small heart she was saying to herself, "I wish I could find it. I should like to start to-morrow!"

"It's only a story, you know, children; but every one in this world is seeking for something, and it is only to some that special blessing is given. We all ought to try for it."

"Try for what?" asked Donald.

"Well," said Miss Gubbins vaguely, "try to be very, very good, like Galahad. He went through the world looking for heavenly glory, and he found it."

"I think I'd rather be like Lancelot," said Donald. "He wasn't quite so very good as Galahad. Gubby, do you think there will be a big hall and a round table in the Ogre's Castle?"

The conversation drifted away from the old legends to the near future, and little Gypsy was the only one of the three who went to bed that night with her brain full of stormy seas, golden light, and boats of fire riding on the waves.

When Miss Gubbins bent over her the last thing at night, she caught the murmured words, "I see the boat; it's coming for me!"

The next day found the children on the beach—not quite so keen upon having the sole monopoly of their favourite corner, now that they knew they were going away. They soon made their little companions aware of the fact, and talked rather grandly about the "castle" they were going to live in. They were busily employed with others in laying out gardens in the sand, with seaweed lawns, pebble paths, and miniature lakes, when Gypsy felt herself pulled by the hand. Turning round, she met the earnest gaze of a little girl about her own age, evidently a new-comer.

"May I play with you?" was the shy request.

Then Gypsy proceeded with the usual catechism to which all new-comers were subjected.

"What's your name?"

"Rene Gordon."

"Have you got a governess?"

"No."

"A mother?"

"Mother is in London with father."

"Have you got a nurse?"

"Yes; she's over there with my little baby brother."

"You can come and get some crabs to put in the lake with me."

And Gypsy led her off in a grandmotherly fashion.

Irene was a pale, uninteresting-looking child, but Gypsy's frank conversation soon put her at ease, and she gave her her full confidence.

"I came here the day before yesterday. I saw you playing, and wanted to come so much, but I didn't like to. You make much better castles and gardens than any one else!"

"That's because we're—we're residers," said Gypsy, struggling with the long word.

"I never have any one to play with at home," continued Irene with a sigh; "and I'm always being punished, and no one loves me."

"You must be a wicked girl, then!" And Gypsy stopped in her operation of turning over stones to find some crabs, and regarded her new friend with doubtful eyes.

"Nurse says I am. I don't like nurse, and she doesn't like me."

"Nurses are very nasty, I think. We haven't a nurse, only Gubby, and she's very nice. But we haven't a father and mother, like you. Don't they like you?"

Irene did not answer for a minute, then she said slowly,—

"I'm a kind of mistake, you know. I don't know how I came, but I was born wrong. I ought to have been a boy, and mother doesn't like girls. Father said, when Percy was born, that he was worth a dozen girls, for he was the heir. I don't quite understand what a heir is. I know he will have our house when he grows up, and I shan't have nothing! No one wants me at home. If I only knew some one who did, I would run away to them; but then, that's rather a frightening thing to do!"

"It would be lovely," said Gypsy, with sparkling eyes. "You could have all kinds of adventures if you ran away. You could sleep in the woods—climb up a tree when night came, because of the wolves, and eat berries and rabbits, and boil a kettle, and—and join a circus, and be dressed in gold and silver, and jump through hoops, and have all the people clapping you, and then you'd grow up a rich lady, and marry a prince, and live in a castle ever after!"

Irene listened to this burst of eloquence much impressed.

"But where should I find a circus?"

"Oh, they're always just outside the wood in storybooks. Or you could be like Galahad, and go riding after the 'Holy Thing.'"

"Who was she?"

"It was a man, not a she. He was very, very good. And a lot of knights rode away one day to find it."

"Find what?"

"The Holy Thing."

"What's that?"

"Well, it was a kind of glory light, something like a cup all in red and yellow and silver. It came from heaven to only very good people, and they all went to find it, and Galahad did. He went across the sea on bridges, and there was an awful storm, and he wouldn't stop for nobody or nothing, and at last a little boat took him right into the sky, and he never came back again."

"And what did he see in the sky?"

Gypsy considered; then in a solemn tone she replied, "God."

"I don't think I'll be like that," said Irene gravely. "That would be a frightening journey."

"Well, I'm going to go one day. I shall set out and find it, and then I shall never come back."

"Hi! Gypsy, hurry up! Where are the crabs?"

It was Donald, who was waxing impatient; and the little girls dropped their conversation for the present.

CHAPTER II

Trying to Find

"LITTLE girl, would you like to come and have some singing with us?"

It was a young lady who spoke to Gypsy the next afternoon, as she was walking disconsolately along the beach, wishing it was not Sunday, that she might have a good romp with her brothers. They were lying down under a bathing machine, busy with some books with which Miss Gubbins had provided them. Gypsy could not read well, and she had looked at pictures till she was tired, so she glanced up brightly when spoken to.

"Yes, I'll come. I like to sing."

She followed her guide to a quiet little corner under the cliffs, where about a dozen boys and girls were assembled. And in a few minutes some bright hymns were started, and then the young lady began to talk to them.

A great deal was unintelligible to Gypsy, but the subject was the "Pearl of greatest price," and Miss Pringle, who was talking, gave them the story of a pearl from the time it was first formed in an oyster-shell to the time it was sold to merchants, and cleaned and set in rings and jewelry of all sorts. Then she told them of the one pearl that was really worth finding, and she concluded by making them each repeat after her the little verse,—

"I love them that love Me; and those that seek Me early shall find Me."

When it was all over, and Gypsy was moving away, she put her hand on her shoulder.

"Are you going to seek for the pearl of greatest price, little one?"

Gypsy knit her brows in thought.

"What is it?" she asked. "Is it the Holy G'ail?"

"It is Jesus Christ Himself. He loves you, and asks you to come to Him. Make up your mind to seek Him, dear, and you will find Him!"

She turned to some others, and Gypsy crept away, her little mind strangely confused between a pearl, a cup in the midst of golden light, and the Lord Himself; but one thing she was determined on, and that was that she would search until she found.

"I've been to a kind of Sunday-school," she announced to her brothers, a short time after.

"Where?"

"Round the corner over there. A nice lady told us a story of a man who was looking about everywhere for pearls. At last he found a lovely big one, only it cost a dreadful lot of money. Then he thought he must have it, so he went home and sold all his things, and came back with the money and bought it."

"And what did he do with it?"

"He never let it go. He kept it. He was like Galahad looking for the Holy Thing. He found it after a long, long time, but it cost a lot of money."

"Galahad found the Holy Grail without paying for it."

"Yes, I'd rather see that than a pearl," said Gypsy wistfully. "I'm going to be very, very good when we go away from here, and perhaps I shall find it in the old house we're going to."

"I think," said Donald, regarding his sister curiously, "that you can't be good more than two days. That's the longest I can. But what I mean to try is to be good all the week till the last day, and then I'll just be as wicked as ever I can, to keep me from bursting."

This resolve rather staggered Claud and Gypsy.

"And what will be your wicked day?" asked Claud.

Donald considered.

"Saturday, I think, because I can begin quite fresh on Sunday."

"But I expect Sunday will be quite a busy day with punishing you," said Claud gravely; "and if the Ogre is with us, he'll punish you worse than Gubby!"

"It's very wicked to mean to be wicked," said Gypsy, with serious, solemn eyes.

"Don't be a little prig, and you needn't preach, because you're always in mischief, and you'll never find the Holy Thing, if you live to be a thousand years old!"

"I shall," said Gypsy tearfully. "You're a horrid boy, and I shan't tell you nothing about it when I do find it."

She left the boys, and went to find Miss Gubbins, who read aloud to her for a little; but though Gypsy told her about the Sunday class, her own resolve was kept locked up in her little heart, and Miss Gubbins had no idea of the effect of the poem upon the impressionable child.

Irene Gordon was the recipient of Gypsy's confidences. She followed her about the beach like a little shadow, and the two became great friends. The boys liked the little stranger because "she didn't give herself airs." In other words, she would fetch and carry for them without a murmur, and when Gypsy urged her to rebel against their autocratic rule, she looked quite astonished.

"Boys always must be waited on, mustn't they? Girls are nobodies!"

When the last day came, and the little Thurstons ran here and there on the beach saying good-bye to all their little friends and acquaintances, Irene came up to Gypsy and sobbed aloud:

"I wish you weren't going away; I shall never see you again. Couldn't you take me with you? I'm so dull at home!"

"I'm 'fraid we might be took up by the police if we stole you," said Gypsy, putting her little arms round Irene's neck and giving her an affectionate hug. "But I think you had really better run away, if no one wants you at home, and perhaps I may meet you on a high hill one day, and we'll both be looking for—for what I told you about!"

"I should be so frightened," murmured Irene.

"Oh no, you wouldn't! I'm never frightened when I'm taking a walk. And if you get into a storm, ask God to take care of you. I always do."

They parted, and Irene was only half comforted; but she went back to her nurse and baby brother, and Gypsy and her brothers took their last farewell of their beloved beach, and were soon in the train with Miss Gubbins, having closed the first chapter in their life.

Poor Miss Gubbins was thankful when the journey was ended. The children's high spirits at first were difficult to contend with; then they grew tired and cross, and quarrelling commenced, so she had to assert her authority to preserve peace. They reached a quiet little country station at last about six o'clock in the evening; and when they got out on the platform they found they were the only passengers that alighted there.

The station-master came bustling up to them, and informed them that the carriage was waiting outside. And they found a comfortable, though rather shabby brougham, with two very fat, sleek horses, and an old coachman, who looked quite aghast at the luggage.

He got off the box, and shook his head remonstratingly. "Now, now, this is too much to expec' my horses to drag eight miles! Should say, if my 'pinion was axed, that a box each, size according to size, would a been all that was desired, and here's three monsters, and a hamper, and three little 'uns, not to speak of a few band-boxes, and such like as females have a likin' to! I never would have in the missus's time more than I thought fit to carry, and 'tisn't to be expected—"

"My good man," said Miss Gubbins a little shortly, "take what luggage you can, and leave the rest. It must either be sent up from the station, or you must come down again for it. Don't let us waste time talking about it!"

The old man looked at her in astonishment, but something in Miss Gubbins' manner made him alter his behaviour. Grumblingly he turned to the luggage, and with the help of the porters got some of it stowed away on the carriage, the station-master promising to send the rest up in a cart that could be lent for that purpose. And then the children bundled in, and with a tired sigh Miss Gubbins resigned herself to the long drive.

"Where's the sea?" asked Claud, after he had got tired of looking out at the narrow green lanes through which they were passing.

"I don't think there will be any sea here," said Miss Gubbins. "I told you I thought there would be none."

"But there's some kind of water somewhere," said Donald.

"I don't know; sit still, and wait to see."

The drive was over at last. They came to a lodge gate, which was opened by a pleasant-looking woman—the old coachman's wife—and as he drove in, he called out: "Oh yes, they've come safe and sound, and a deal more of them than is wanted in this part!"

"What a rude old man!" said Donald. "I'll fight him, if he talks like that to me!"

"Hush, Donald. I think I had better tell you that your brother wrote to me saying there were some very old servants here, who had quite managed the house when your uncle got very old. We must all be polite to them, and not take any notice of their remarks till your brother comes. And I wish," Miss Gubbins added, with a little sigh, "that he were here now."

When the house was reached, the children looked at it with delight and awe. It was an old Elizabethan building in red brick, with projecting gables and casement windows. When they got inside, they found themselves in a large entrance hall wainscoted in old oak, a broad wooden staircase leading up to a gallery above from the centre of the hall.

"I am sure," whispered Claud, in awe to his brother, "that this was where King Arthur and his knights lived."

"Yes," responded Donald delightedly. "Look at their armour and swords hanging up on the walls!"

A very important-looking old lady in a black silk dress received them, and the children thought the house belonged to her until Miss Gubbins told them she was the housekeeper, and her name was Mrs. Peck. She had a nice tea prepared for them in the large dining-room.

"I'm sure I don't know what rooms to give you," she said to Miss Gubbins, "but I've done my best. There's a set of rooms upstairs which will suit you, I think. One is the old nursery—at least it was fifty year ago—and it's a nice sunny room, and there's a bedroom leading into it that I thought would do for you and the little girl, and another room on the same landing for the two little boys. We haven't had children in this house for forty years, and most of the rooms are shut up. When Mr. Thurston comes back, he will say what he wishes. But these three rooms will be quite enough for you till he comes, I should think."

"Certainly," said Miss Gubbins brightly. "We will go and look at them after tea."

"But we shall use all the rooms in the house if we like," said Donald, looking at Mrs. Peck defiantly. "We had three rooms where we came from, and we aren't babies, to be put in a nursery!"

"Hush, Donald! That is not the way to speak. Go on with your tea."

Mrs. Peck said nothing, but her gaze encountered Donald's, and from that time it was war to the knife between them.

After tea they all went up the old staircase, along the gallery, until they came to a side wing of the house, and here were the rooms prepared for them. The nursery was a large room, with a deep window-seat, and two cupboards in the recesses on each side of the fireplace. A table in the middle of the room, a horsehair sofa, one arm-chair, and six old-fashioned wooden ones with rush seats, formed the furniture of it. There were no pictures on the walls, and the carpet was threadbare and shabby, as were also some faded crimson curtains to the window.

"Quite suitable for children," said Mrs. Peck, as she noticed Miss Gubbins' downcast face.

"We will soon make it bright and comfortable," said Miss Gubbins.

"It smells nasty," said Gypsy critically, "but it will be a lovely room to play in."

"The table isn't round," said Donald, inspecting it.

"That's dreadful," said Claud. "We can't be Arthur's knights here."

Then they went into the bedrooms, but the children did not take much interest in them, and soon came back to the old nursery.

"I love the window," said Gypsy, climbing upon the window-seat, and trying to open the casement. "Look how high up we are! We can see for miles and miles, and there's no sea anywhere."

"What are these horrid bars outside the window?" said Claud, with a disgusted face, as he tried to lean out of it.

"I tell you what it is," said Donald, in an eager excited whisper, "the Ogre has told Mrs. Peck to put us in here, and then he's going to lock us in, and we shall be in prison. Castles always have prisons upstairs as well as dungeons."

"How shall we get anything to eat?" enquired Gypsy, looking as if she rather liked the prospect.

"Oh, the food will come up in baskets outside the window, and we shall pull it up by a rope."

"What fun!"

"And," continued Claud, who would never be outdone in imagination by his brother, "every day there 'll be a little less to eat, until at last one slice of bread and butter will come up, and we shall have to divide it between us, and it will have to last the whole day!"

"And then what?"

"And then there will be none," said Donald, in a tragic voice.

Their conversation was interrupted here by Miss Gubbins coming in and taking them off to bed; and by this time they were so tired and sleepy, that they were only too glad to obey.

The next morning Gypsy woke up very early. The sun was streaming into the bedroom, and she looked round the room curiously, for Miss Gubbins was still asleep, and she knew she must keep quiet. She noticed the quaint, old-fashioned furniture, and thought it much nicer than the modern kind they were accustomed to in their seaside lodgings, and then she started, as she saw on the wall opposite her, a dingy, faded-looking text in a frame with these words upon it—

"Those that seek Me early shall find Me."

"Why, that's the text that lady gave me to learn," she said to herself; and then her thoughts rambled in this fashion:

"She said it was Jesus I must look for. I wonder if I shall find Him here. It's much more likely in a great old house like this, than in those old lodgings.

"'Seek Me early.' Then it's early in the morning, like this, when I ought to look for Him. I 'spect it's only to very, very good people He shows Himself. And He'll be in a beautiful golden light. Oh, I should like to see Him for a little tiny minute, and then I would know He was pleased with me. I wish I could find Him, and wouldn't the boys be 'stonished when I told them! I wonder if I've been good enough.

"I've been trying hard to be like Galahad. I didn't hit Claud when he pinched me in the train, and I only called him a 'silly' once, I didn't call him a 'beast,' and I'm sure he was one! And then I kissed that horrid cook when we came away, and I didn't say 'No' like the boys when she asked me to. I s'pose it will be very hard and difficult to find Jesus, but Galahad saw the Holy Thing in front of him all the way. If I could only once see a little bit of it, I should be so glad—I will try! I will get up now, because it's early, and it's very quiet like Sunday, and I'll creep along these big old passages, and peep into all the rooms.

"'Those that seek Me early shall find Me.' Jesus said that, so it must be true, and p'r'aps I shall find Him this very morning!"

She lay still pondering over the text with big eyes, and at last stole quietly out of the bedroom in her dressing gown and little slippers.

Along the gallery she crept, trying the handle of every door as she did so; but most of them were locked. A few rooms were open, and from the threshold she regarded the large fourpost bedsteads, with heavy hangings, the shrouded furniture, and the darkened windows with a doubtful awe. There seemed a great many passages, and at last disappointment crept into her little heart.

"I'd better go back, I don't like these dark rooms. I shall never find Jesus here!"

She was just turning back, when she saw at the end of the narrow passage in which she was, a door just ajar, and light streaming out. This looked more promising, but when she crept up, and pushed the heavy door open, she caught her breath in delight and astonishment. Had she come after all to the right place?

CHAPTER III

Almost Successful

IT was not a bedroom she was in now. A room with dark panelled walls and ceiling, with rows upon rows of books stretching from floor to roof, a table in the centre of the room, with great carved corners and legs; and as Gypsy looked, she thought she saw hideous creeping creatures crawling over it, and making faces at her; some heavy chairs, and smaller tables in deep recesses. But this was not what entranced her eye. Opposite her, taking up the whole of one side of the room, was a stained glass window, and Gypsy felt at once this must be a kind of church.

She looked up in expectation, and then the thought came into her mind: "I'd better say my prayers, and then I can ask God to help me find Jesus."

She knelt down, a little figure with tumbled golden curls, and a wistful, dreamy little face; and as she knelt she prayed:

"O God—I thank Thee for taking care of me all night, and please take care of me to-day. Make me a good girl, and forgive me for being naughty, and bless Gubby, and Donald, and Claud, and take us all to heaven when we die—"

Thus far she got very easily, for it was her usual morning prayer, but she wanted something more to-day, and after a long pause she added, in an awed whisper:

"And please, God, help me to find Jesus now. I'd like to find Him here, because I've got up early, as He told me. For Jesus Christ's sake—Amen."

She knelt on in silence for a minute with tightly closed eyes, and then she opened them, and the morning sun having just found its way in at the window, streamed through the coloured glass in rays of red, blue, and yellow, upon the very spot of floor in front of her.

The child looked up in delighted wonder and content. Yes, the lovely light was coming down to her just like it did to Galahad, and God was answering her prayer already. She had found the "Holy Thing" at last. She gazed and gazed, hoping to see something more; she put out her little hands, and let the coloured sunbeams play over them, she moved on her knees a step forward, and shook out her white woollen dressing gown in the golden light, and with a smile of perfect content she looked up to the roof and said aloud:

"Thank you very much, God, it's lovely, it's just what I thought Galahad saw, but please let me see Jesus Himself just a minute. I know He must be here."

But she saw nothing more, and after a time she got up from her knees, for the sun had gone behind a cloud, and the beautiful rays had vanished; and with a little child's sublime faith she trotted away, saying to herself:

"God did hear me, and I'll come another day and find Jesus. Perhaps He has gone somewhere else to-day, but I know I'll find Him here, because of the beautiful light."

When outside in the dark passages, she felt quite bewildered, and after vainly trying to find her way back to the bedroom, she sat down and relieved her over-wrought little brain by a burst of tears.

"And now I'm lost, or perhaps, as I've seen the holy light, I'm not to go back to Gubby and the boys, and they'll never find me again—like Galahad! But, oh, I do want to get back to bed—and—and I'm very hungry!"

She was sobbing away, when a maid appeared, and stared at her as if she had been a small ghost.

"Sakes alive! How you scared me! However did you come a wanderin' over here? There, bless your little heart, don't cry! I'm Jane as brought you your bath-water last night. Don't you remember me? Let me carry you back to your guv'ness. What's she thinkin' of, to let you wander out o' your bed in this fashion? But there, I never did hold with guv'nesses; little mites like you ought to have a nurse, and not be havin' your brains stuffed to burstin' with jography and sums, and such outlandish things!"

Muttering which, Jane picked her up like a baby, and astonished poor sleepy Miss Gubbins by depositing her on her bed.

Gypsy was too excited and tired to explain where she had been, and Miss Gubbins could only conjecture that she had walked in her sleep, so she tucked her up in her own little bed again, and Gypsy went soundly to sleep, and never woke till Miss Gubbins was up and dressed, and waiting to begin her toilet. Gypsy was rather quiet over the nursery breakfast. The boys were in the highest spirits, and were longing to tear all over the house, but Miss Gubbins gave them a little lecture before they left her wing.

"I shall be very busy this morning unpacking, and I want you all to be very good. Remember the old servants here have never been accustomed to children, and I think they do not like the idea of our coming at all. Show them that you can be polite and gentle, and don't let them think I have brought you up like little savages."

"As long as old Peck doesn't come near us we shall do," said Donald.

And then, after promising they would not get into mischief, away they went.

"It's lovely to have such a large house to live in," said Claud; "what splendid fun we shall have when we play hide and seek!"

"Yes, but it's a shame all the rooms are locked up! Let us come downstairs into the garden."

They found their way out, and for the next couple of hours were enjoying themselves thoroughly, in running along an old flower garden, laid out in terraces; then down on the velvet lawns, and through the shrubberies; and finally finding their way to the walled kitchen garden, with glass houses of grapes, and melons, and fruit and vegetables in abundance.

"It's like a fairy palace," said Gypsy, as after coaxing and wheedling the old gardener in charge to give them some fruit, they threw themselves down under a shady beech on the lawn, and proceeded to enjoy some fallen apples, six ripe plums, and a rhubarb leaf full of raspberries.

"Yes," said Donald contentedly; "it isn't much like an ogre's castle, is it?"

"Does 'Agony' live here?" asked Gypsy.

Donald nodded his head and looked very wise.

"She was talking to me this morning; she's getting angry, and we shall have to do something to please her to-day, or to-night she'll be awful. You see that lot of bushes over there? We shall have to crawl through them on our hands and knees directly after dinner to-day!"

Gypsy's face lengthened, and Claud said, dismally, "One of those bushes is made of holly; we shall bleed to death!"

"Well, we must do it, and I'm always the first one to go through!"

To explain this conversation, I must tell you that "Agony" was a mysterious game that the children invented, and that was always being played. Gypsy more than half believed it was true. "Agony" was supposed to be a very hard and cruel spirit who lived with them always, and was constantly requiring them to do dreadful things to appease her wrath. Donald was chief inventor, and held the game in his own hands, for he was the priest, and dictated "Agony's" wishes to his younger brother and sister. "Agony" appeared in the shape of smoke or steam—if a steamer or train passed the children at the seaside, their one idea was to look at the smoke. If it came puffing out in great white wreaths, "Agony" was in a good temper, but if the smoke was black, she was angry, and some painful exploit must be attempted at once to soothe her anger. Sometimes Claud and Gypsy would wax rebellious, and refuse to do what Donald ordained, then at night they knew what to expect. A figure in a white sheet would creep out at them from behind some dark corner on the stairs, or crawl out from under their beds, and Gypsy would invariably succumb at once.

"Don't come near me, Agony, oh please don't! I will be good, I will, I promise you!"

And if Claud squared his shoulders and with clenched fists prepared for combat, he was quite certain to get the worst of it, so they both learnt that rebellion was useless.

Now Gypsy asked curiously:

"Where shall we see Agony, Don? There are no trains or steamers here. P'raps she won't be here at all, and we shall get rid of her for ever."

"Oh," said Donald, who was never at a loss, "you'll see her fast enough. She will come out of the chimneys here."

Gypsy looked disappointed.

"And," pursued Donald, with a sudden inspiration, "if she isn't pleased after we've crawled through those bushes this afternoon, we shall have to crawl down the staircase from top to bottom on our hands six times!"

"This is a lovely staircase for that," said Claud, adding with guile, "Don't you think Agony would like us to slide down on the banisters? We couldn't do it at the lodging, because they had so many corners, but we could here."

And then Gypsy said very slowly:

"I shan't do it if it's naughty, because I'm going to be very, very good always. I saw something this morning that you haven't seen."

"What?"

"I saw—" Gypsy paused, and shook her head from side to side with great solemnity—"saw the Holy Thing!"

"You're a wicked story-teller!"

"I'm not. I did see it. I got up very early to look for it, and I went along the passages, and opened some doors, and after a long, long time I saw a door a little bit open, and I went in, and there was a lovely church window, and it was a dark room with hundreds and thousands of books—the walls were made of books—and I knelt down on the carpet, and after I had said my prayers I opened my eyes, and—and there it was."

"What was it like?" asked Donald sceptically, whilst Claud gazed at his little sister with open mouth and eyes.

"It was a lovely glory light, red, and yellow, and blue, and it came right down upon me, and made me all red and blue and yellow too, and it stayed a few minutes, and then it went away."

"Show us the room, and we will believe you," said Donald, still unbelieving, but the sweet seriousness of Gypsy's face almost making him waver.

"Why didn't you tell us before?" asked Claud.

"Because I was waiting to tell it when you weren't too busy."

And then Gypsy trotted into the house, and the boys followed her. Such a search they had, up and down stairs and along every passage; but though they opened the doors of many rooms, the particular one could not be found.

"We knew you were telling stories," said Donald triumphantly.

And Gypsy with tears in her eyes protested again and again that she was speaking the truth.

"Well, if the room was here before breakfast it is here now," said Donald sternly, "and if you can't find it, it will be all a make up. I knew you weren't good enough to find the Holy Thing!"

"I lost my way coming back," sobbed Gypsy, "and Jane found me and carried me back to bed; you ask her if she didn't. I did see the Holy Thing. I don't care what you say. I did, I did!"

"Hulloo, let's come down this staircase," exclaimed Claud, opening a door that looked like a cupboard, "here are a lot more rooms here, and here's one with the door unlocked."

He bounced in, and then stopped in consternation; it was Mrs. Peck's private sitting-room, and she was having a slight lunch, consisting of a glass of wine and some cake which looked very tempting.

She stood up when she saw them, and bristled all over with anger and annoyance.

"Now, once for all, I'll have you children to understand that you'll keep to your own rooms, and not be prying and peeping into rooms that don't belong to you—such impertinence! Without a knock, or if you please—bursting into my private room, which the old master himself never would presume to enter!"

"You've got the comfortablest room in the house," said Donald, standing at the door and looking round with cool unconcern.

"I say, Mrs. Peck, tell us, is there a room like a church in this house? Gypsy says there is, and we know she's humbugging."

"I'm not, I'm speaking true; there is a beautiful window in it, isn't there, Mrs. Peck?"

Poor Gypsy eagerly waited for Mrs. Peck's answer. If she could only get some one to tell the boys that she was right!

But Mrs. Peck swept them all out of the room. "I don't know what your guv'ness is for, if she can't keep you from tearing all over the house in this fashion. A room like a church! Thank goodness we've none of that sort here. A popish chapel maybe you're expecting? There, go along, and never let me see you in my part of the house again!"

"There!" cried the boys in triumph to the discomfited Gypsy. "Of course we knew you were telling stories; come on, old Peck is a horrid old thing; we'll go and find Gubby and see what she is doing."

Away they tore, but Gypsy followed more slowly. Was it possible it had been all a dream, she wondered? Her little mind was sorely perplexed, and she wandered off again by herself down the passages to see if she could find the room. It was all in vain, and she came to her early dinner with a sad and downcast little face.

The boys had no mercy on her.

"Fancy, Gubby, Gypsy has been trying to make us believe she saw the Holy Thing. She vowed she went into a room and saw it before breakfast. And when we asked her to show us the room, she says she can't find it. The room has disappeared! Very wonderful, isn't it?"

"Ha, ha!" laughed Claud. "You aren't quite so good as you thought you were, Miss Gypsy,—you wanted to make out that you had seen it, though we hadn't."

"Hush, boys, I daresay she thought she had seen it." And turning to the little girl Miss Gubbins added, "You mustn't think too much about the things I read to you, or I shall have to stop. You were dreaming last night so much that I suppose you fancied it was real, and that was what made you leave your bed this morning, I expect."

Gypsy said no more, for her feelings were deeply wounded. She was a very truthful child, and to have her word doubted was a great trial. She had been so happy after her morning experience, so sure that the boys would believe her, and so delighted to be able to tell them of it, that it was a bitter disappointment to her to bear their scoffs and ridicule.

The disappearance of the room was a great puzzle to her, and for the next few days she spent many hours in fruitless efforts to find it. She never mentioned the subject again, though the boys often teased her about it.

But one afternoon Miss Gubbins came into the nursery, or schoolroom, as it was now called, and found the little maiden at the window talking in low, vehement tones to her doll. Gypsy's doll was never in her arms unless she was in trouble of some sort. When she quarrelled with the boys, or was punished for some naughtiness, "Helen Mary" was her comforter. And Miss Gubbins now wondered what had disturbed her mind. These were the words she heard.

"God will make them believe me on the judgment day. Gubby told us everything will be put right then. And He will tell them that I spoke the truth, the straight real truth, and that He sent me the Holy Thing Himself. Yes, He will, Helen Mary, and the boys will be all wrong, and I shall be quite, quite right!"

CHAPTER IV

A Crippled Knight

MISS GUBBINS had a difficult time for those first few weeks in the old house, and she longed for the advent of the master. Mrs. Peck ruled the household with a rod of iron. The old butler, Smythe by name, was her abject slave. He was a kind old man, and took a great fancy to the children, but his kindness was shown only in Mrs. Peck's absence. He would call them into his pantry, and give them all kinds of dainties such as children love, but let but the silk dress of Mrs. Peck rustle by, and he would drive them out in surly fright, muttering as he did so: "Away with you, ye young plagues, a-comin' and a-worryin' round and a-drivin' a body nearly crazy!"

Mrs. Peck did not like children, and made no secret of her dislike to them. Perhaps, if they had been more docile and respectful to her, she would not have been so hard on them. As it was, there was perpetual contention between them, and Miss Gubbins could not keep the peace. Miss Gubbins herself was preoccupied and absorbed. The old house appealed to her poetic feelings, and she would wander through the empty rooms saying to herself:

"We have gone back a century here. No reminders of the prosaic age in which we live, except the post and newspapers."

And with her poetry books in hand she dreamed away her days, only subject to rude awakenings by the incivility and neglect of the housekeeper, and the mischief and scrapes of her pupils.

Donald and Claud were enjoying themselves as they had never done before, and their imaginations were busy from morning to night planning tournaments and games of all kinds. There were as many resources indoors as out of doors, and most of the servants enjoyed hearing the merry shouts and laughter echoing through the house.

The old coachman, Mills, declared sourly that they had "destroyed his peace of mind for evermore"; but there was cause for such a speech after he was fetched out by the young groom to see each of the boys mounted on one of the fat old carriage-horses, with long poles in their hands, and tearing up the smooth gravel drive in front of the house by charging one another in the orthodox knightly fashion.

"We're King Arthur's knights, Mills; stand out of the way, or we'll ride you down!"

And it was some time before Mills could rescue his beloved horses from the hands of such fiery young warriors.

One afternoon Miss Gubbins was lying down with a bad headache, and the children had the schoolroom to themselves. Donald and Gypsy were perched on the top of the large square table, and Claud was seated on the old window-seat, making a boat out of a piece of wood, and watching the other two furtively, and rather disconsolately.

The table was a desert island, Donald was Robinson Crusoe, and Gypsy his man Friday; the carpet had turned into a raging sea, chairs and stools were crocodiles and fish of all sorts, and with a hooked walking-stick Donald was hoisting various articles on to the island.

"I'll be a cannibal king, and come across to you in a boat," suggested Claud presently.

"We don't want you; there's no room on the table for three," said Donald. "You wouldn't be Friday, and Gypsy makes a much better Friday, because she does what she is told."

"I don't want to get on your old island," said Claud crossly. Then after a minute, very persuasively:

"I could make a lovely earthquake under the table; you could be swaying and falling and clinging hold of the rocks—"

"We don't want an earthquake. Now, Friday, my gun; lie down; let me put my foot on you to take aim. I see a bear on a crocodile's back."

Claud hacked away at his piece of wood with a clouded brow. At last he jumped up.

"This is a stupid old house!" he announced. "I wish we were back at the sea; we always had heaps of children to play with there, and I shall go out and see if there aren't any about here. I shall find some one to play with."

He took up his straw hat and marched off; the other two were so engrossed in their game that they did not notice his disappearance.

When tea-time came, and Miss Gubbins came out of her room, refreshed by her rest, no Claud was to be found. She was not alarmed, and it was not till it was nearly the children's bedtime that she began to make inquiries.

"He's run away," suggested Gypsy cheerfully. "He said he liked the seaside best; p'raps he's gone back there."

"Have you been quarrelling again?"

"No; but we didn't want him, and he went away to play by himself."

Miss Gubbins went downstairs out into the garden and round the stables with a worried face. When she asked Mills if he had seen him, the old man gave an indignant snort.

"Seed him! 'Tis the only blessed time in my life when I don't see any of 'em; but such times is rare indeed! 'Afore five o'clock in the mornin' they're always shoutin' and a tearin' round, and just where you last expec's to see 'em, there they'll sure to be. And if my 'pinion is axed, he's most likely took up by the perleece for robbin' orchards, or climbin' over gen'lemen's garden-walls, to pick whatever he can lay his hands on, and sauce and mock his elders and betters, if they do but say a rummonstratin' word!"

Then Miss Gubbins went through the grounds and out into the high road down to the little village, about a mile distant, Donald and Gypsy following her, and making anything but reassuring suggestions.

"He had a boat he was making. He's found the sea somewhere, and tumbled in and got drowned!"

"He's climbed a tree to get a rook's nest, and fallen down and broken both his legs!"

"He's lost his way in a wood, and got caught in a trap!"

And so on, till Miss Gubbins hushed them rather sharply. Only one person in the village seemed to have seen him, and that was the baker's wife.

"The little fair-haired chap? Yes; I seed him a trottin' through the street this afternoon, and he were a talkin' to hisself like mad. He went straight along the road, and he hasn't come back to my knowledge."

"That's Claud!" exclaimed Donald. "He always talks to himself when he isn't pleased. Come on, Gubby, we shall find him."

It was getting dark now, and Miss Gubbins was most uneasy. Not one of the servants had offered to search for her missing pupil, and she felt helpless and hopeless. At length, coming towards them along the dusty road, they spied a cart, and as it came nearer, a little form in it jumped up, and throwing up his arms shouted out:

"Hulloo, Gubby! Here I am! And I've had such fun."

It was Claud. The good-natured baker, coming back very late from his round, had overtaken a little tired, dusty figure plodding along, and recognising who it was, had lifted him into his cart and brought him back.

When Miss Gubbins found him safe and well she almost cried, the relief was so great, and Donald and Gypsy danced round him in the greatest excitement.

"Where have you been? What have you seen? Did you lose yourself? Mrs. Peck said she hoped you had, to give you a lesson. Tell us what you've been doing!"

But Claud, revelling in his importance now, pursed up his mouth and refused to say a word till he had got home and had had a good supper. Then his tongue was unloosed.

"I went out for a walk to find some children," he said, "and I peeped into three gardens on the road, and I asked a gardener about them, and he said no gentlefolk's children—that's what he called them—lived nearer than a white house high up on a hill that he showed me, and he said there were two there, only they were away from home; and then I left him, and I saw a farm across some fields, and I thought I'd like to go and see the inside of it. And when I got up, one side of the house was all a dirty yard, with pigs and fowls and cows, and the other side was a jolly garden with a lot of grass and apple trees at the bottom, and there was a window opening right out on the grass, and when I got up, I saw—guess!"

"A lovely tea-table with cakes and buns, and a nice little girl in the middle of it," suggested Gypsy.

"Two cross old ladies with a cat and a dog," guessed Donald.

"You're both wrong. It was a man, and he was on a sofa, and over his legs was a lovely wolf-skin, with a wolf's head, and tongue, and teeth showing, and long claws to his feet, and no one else was in the room except the man, and he was drawing a picture, an awfully funny one. And when he saw me, he said,—

"'Halloo, youngster, have you dropped from the moon?'

"And so then I pretended I had, and then he laughed out, and told me to come in, for he said he was longing for some one to talk to. And I told him I was wanting some one to play with, and he said he knew some lovely games, and he taught me one on paper, about a fox and a goose. I'll show you to-morrow."

Claud stopped for breath, and Donald eagerly demanded, "Did he give you anything to eat?"

"Yes; a huge slice of cake out of a cupboard. He said he had an old aunt who loved him so much, and spoilt him so much, and talked, and wrapped him up so much, that he was obliged to run away from her every summer, because if he didn't, he would turn into a stuffed old image that could only nod and smile, with nothing to think about but kittens' illnesses, and flannel petticoats for old women! He was very funny, and I liked him."

"And what else?" asked Gypsy. "Did he shoot the wolf that was over his legs? And what was he lying on a sofa for?"

"He's got something the matter with his legs, and he can't walk. He got lost on a mountain in the rain, and he was very ill, and he's a cripple, he says. He didn't seem to mind; he is staying there because his nurse lives there. I asked him if he was a nursery boy when he was little, and he said yes, and fancy! He had a father and mother and four brothers and sisters, and now they're all dead!"

"Who killed them?" asked Gypsy quickly.

"God did, I suppose," was Claud's reply. Then after a pause he went on, "I told him I would come and see him again. He can tell lovely stories, and I think he likes some one to listen to them. He has a chair on wheels, and he wheels himself out on the grass, and he says he feels like an old cow sometimes, because he has nothing to do but to munch his food, look up at the blue sky, and move round and round inside a small field, and to-day is always the same as yesterday, and to-morrow will be like to-day. I told him our days were never the same, and then he listened, and I talked, and when I was tired it was nearly dark, and so I came away."

"And now you are going to bed," said Miss Gubbins, "and you must never run away again without telling me where you're going."

Claud went off to bed obediently, but when Donald was half asleep, an hour later, he was awakened by his brother's call—

"Donald, look here; a man without legs can never be a knight, can he? Not a knight like King Arthur's?"

Donald rubbed his eyes.

"Don't bother!"

"Well, but just say. Would Arthur have had a cripple man, however brave he was?"

"Of course he wouldn't."

"Then my friend can't play that with us. I wish he could."

"Gubby said one of them got tired, and turned monk,"' murmured Donald. "Don't you remember?"

"Yes, I know; it was the one who told the story of Galahad. What was his name? Oh, I know, Sir Perceval. And that's what I shall call my friend. He wouldn't tell me his name—at least, he said was 'Bob Bogus.' That's what he puts at the bottom of his pictures—the funny ones I told you about. He sends them to 'Punch.' But that isn't his real name, and Sir Perceval is much nicer."

A grunt was Donald's only response, and Claud turned over on his pillow, seeing further conversation was useless. But as he, too, drifted into dreamland, he murmured, "A legless knight could be brave, I am sure."

It was not long before Claud visited his friend again. He slipped away quietly from the others at play, and confided in Miss Gubbins alone where he was going.

"You see, Gubby, I don't want them to come with me. He's my friend, not theirs, and Donald doesn't think much of him because his legs are all wrong."

"I don't know whether you ought to visit strangers so," said Miss Gubbins, hesitating. "Still, your brother will be here soon, and he can settle questions of that kind. Only don't come home late. You must be in time for tea."

Away trotted Claud. It was not very far, now he knew the way. He crept round to the front of the house facing the apple orchard, and there he saw, to his delight, the wheeled chair under the shade of an apple-tree.

Claud marched up with a radiant face.

"Good afternoon, Sir Perceval," he said, holding out his hand.

His friend started, and glanced up surprised at his new title. He was quite a young man, and rather a handsome one. His was a face that knew how to suffer and be strong, and perhaps the weary, sad look about his blue eyes was the only indication that he had known trouble. There was no sadness in tone or look as he exclaimed—

"Since when have I been knighted, may I ask?"

"Oh, I've knighted you myself. Gubby read us and told us about Sir Perceval, who left King Arthur and went into a monk's house to be quiet and good; at least the others were just as good, I'm sure, only I thought you'd do to be him, because you can't ride in tournaments."

"Thanks. I will answer to my name. May I prove worthy of it! When does the next tournament come off? Tell me some news of King Arthur's Court. I have been so long away from it that I've forgotten the manners and customs of it."

"We've been looking busily for the Holy Thing," said Claud, settling himself down on the grass and gazing up at the newly-made knight with shining eyes. "You saw it, didn't you, as well as Galahad? Only you weren't quite good enough to be caught away like he was."

The young man looked at the little speaker rather thoughtfully.

"Oh—ah, the Holy Grail, I remember; though it is years since I read it. Yes, you're right, though you don't know how near I was to being caught away a year or so ago. As you say, I 'wasn't quite good enough!'"

Then Claud relapsed into everyday talk.

"Yes, and there's Gypsy actually, who is always in mischief quite as bad as Donald and me, she pretends and sticks to it that she really did—honour bright—see the Holy Thing in a strange kind of church room in our house very early in the morning! And she says the room has disappeared. As girl would be good enough to see it!"

"I think a girl was the first one to see it. Wasn't it Sir Perceval's sister, the nun?"

"Oh, well, she was a grown-up person. Not a creature like Gypsy!"

"And what is this despised Gypsy like? A nutbrown maid?"

"No, she isn't brown; her hair is like mine, and always untidy, and she has only just given up wearing socks, and she's never still a minute."

"Poor little maiden! Do you think you are more to catch sight of it than she is?"

"I'm not very good myself," said Claud reflectively. "I don't think any of us are. Don and I try to be knights whenever we get a chance, and now we're in a proper kind of castle we feel much more like them. Then you see the Ogre will be coming back soon, and all kinds of things will happen. He is our grown-up brother—we call him the Ogre because he has a great moustache, which he pulls when he is angry, and he is a big, tall man, and I think he means to be very cruel to us when he comes back. At least we pretend he is going to be. It's more fun, you see!"

"We'll hope he won't disappoint you."

They chatted on, and when Claud left his friend an hour after, he said by way of farewell:

"I dare say I'll come and see you pretty often. I suppose you can't ever come and see us? Gubby would ask you to tea, if you could get up the stairs."

"Thanks, but I'm afraid my old legs couldn't do it. I tell them sometimes they've done their best to make me a decrepit old man, but I've got a little friend who won't let them have all their own way. He keeps them from worrying me."

"Who is he?"

"Ah, well, he has a variety of names. He is a little companion of mine, and helps me to do my sketches. Good-bye, and bring that little sister of yours to see me next time you come."

"Good-bye, Sir Perceval."

CHAPTER V

The "Ogre's" Arrival

IT was a wet day. Lessons had been done; dinner was over, and Miss Gubbins had told her little charges not to leave the schoolroom. She had been reading them some of the "Idylls of the King;" and then seeing them settle down quietly on the old window-seat to talk them over, she slipped away to write some letters in her room. The servants were all busy making preparations for their master, as he was now expected back any day, and Mrs. Peck was in the worst of humours, scolding the maids, and full of lamentation over the old times that were gone.

The children wisely kept out of her way; even Smythe would have nothing to do with them, and they were glad to have the safe refuge of the school room to play in.

Now they were talking with serious eyes, and in earnest tones, about their beloved King Arthur and his knights.

"I'll be Arthur," said Donald, at last starting up, "and I'm going to give a banquet to Lancelot and my queen. Come on to the table!"

"It isn't like Arthur's table," objected Claud, "it's a nasty square thing, and you're not to sit at the head of it, Don, for Arthur never had a head, he sat equal with his knights!"

"Couldn't we pretend it was round?" suggested Gypsy.

Donald walked round the offending object with frowning brow, then his face cleared.

"We'll make it round," he said; "we'll cut off the corners!"

Claud capered up and down with delight at this inspiration.

"With our pocket-knives! Come on!"

The table was an old mahogany one, and the boys found it harder work than they anticipated.

"Will Gubby be angry?" asked Gypsy doubtfully, as she saw the shavings drop on the carpet.

"She knows we like a round table," said Donald, panting for breath, as he hacked away with a ruthless hand. "I know what will be better. I will go and get a saw. There is one in the toolhouse."

Away he ran, and Claud rested from his labour.

"You see," he explained to Gypsy, who was looking on with round eyes, "it's a very old table, and it's covered with ink, and it always has a cloth on, so it can't be very wrong to make it round instead of square!"

Donald soon returned, and the destruction of the table was renewed with fresh vigour. They were in the very midst of it, when the door suddenly opened, and Victor Thurston stood on the threshold.

So intent had they been in their occupation, that his arrival, and the consequent bustle in the house, had been entirely unnoticed by them. It was an unfortunate meeting.

A short, sharp ejaculation started the children. "Good heavens, what imps of mischief! Where on earth is your governess? Does she allow you to hack all the furniture to pieces in this fashion?"

Gypsy ran out of the room thoroughly frightened; Claud retreated to the window-seat; Donald only stood his ground.

"We're only altering our table a little. We want it round. This is our table, and this is our room. Mrs. Peck said so!"

He looked defiant, as he often did when his conscience told him he had done wrong; but the hurried entrance of Miss Gubbins, and her horror-stricken exclamations and apologies cut his excuses short.

"You must have your hands full," said Victor, with a short laugh, as he tried to greet Miss Gubbins politely, "if this is a specimen of how they employ themselves in your absence!"

"They have never done such a naughty thing before," said poor Miss Gubbins. "I cannot think how they could have dared to do it! Come and tell your brother how sorry you are, Donald, for spoiling his furniture so!"

"It isn't his table, it's ours," muttered Donald sullenly.

"Look here, youngster," and Victor drew his little brother to him by the ear. "I have given you a home here, but I don't expect you to ruin everything in it by wanton mischief. You are old enough to know better. We'll say no more about it now, but don't let me find you destroying anything else, or there will be a row. Now make yourself scarce, for, I want to have a few words with Miss Gubbins."

Donald darted out of the room, and Claud followed him.

Victor looked after them; then with a smile and shrug of his shoulders, said to Miss Gubbins, "I hope I have not made a mistake in having them here. I never pretend to understand children; they are unknown quantities to me, but I wanted to give them a comfortable home, and I was going to ask you, Miss Gubbins, if you felt it possible to superintend the household here a little. They say it wants a lady to make a place homelike, and these old servants have had it all their own way too long. I thought perhaps I could make some arrangement about the boys being taught out of the house, if only for a few hours every day, and Gypsy seems such a baby that she would not require much of your time. What do you think? Of course it remains with you whether you would be willing to try it."

Miss Gubbins gazed out of the window with a little frown between her eyes. She took off her pince-nez, rubbed them nervously, then put them on, and looked up at the young man before her.

"I will be quite frank with you," she said. "I could not superintend such a large household and the children's lessons too. If the boys were taken off my hands, it would be a different matter; but even then, unless you gave Mrs. Peck notice to leave, I should not like to attempt it. She does not like our being here, and would never be willing to take any orders from me."

"Mrs. Peck can go to Jericho!" exclaimed Victor, a little hotly. "She treated me to a little of her independence directly I came into the house. I wrote to her to make you thoroughly comfortable; I find she has banished you to the top of the house, and when I remonstrated, I met with quiet insolence. One thing I have quite determined, and that is, to be master here; and the sooner she knows it, and every one else too, the better it will be for them all!"

Miss Gubbins was silent. Victor went on:

"I shall lead a very quiet life here; there is a good bit of land which will need my attention, and I shall be in town very often. I want things to go on smoothly in my absence, and I don't consider Mrs. Peck will be needed any more. The cook, I find, has been here fifteen years, and seems a motherly, capable old body, quite anxious to escape Mrs. Peck's rule. Don't decide hastily, but let me know in a day or two what you feel about it. I won't keep you any longer now, but I hope you will dine with me at eight to-night. I conclude the children will be in bed by that time, and if not, there are plenty of servants here to look after them."

He strode away, and Miss Gubbins heaved a heavy sigh. "I must do it. I don't mind the housekeeping. It is these old servants I dread, and I shall not like to lose control over the boys. I hope they will get on well with Mr. Thurston. I wish he were not quite so masterful."

And then with another sigh, she settled herself in the window-seat, and took up one of her beloved poets to soothe her perturbed spirit.

The children meanwhile were discussing the arrival of their brother with vigour, in a favourite corner of theirs on the stairs. It was a little square landing overlooking the entrance hall, and was partially curtained off the wide staircase.

If "Agony's" subjects proved rebellious, she was sure to rush out at them from this corner after dusk as they passed upstairs, and Gypsy the heavy damask curtain at all times with awe and dread. She was sitting now on the floor, her legs well tucked under her, and Donald was holding forth:

"He's a worse Ogre than ever, and he'll make this house a kind of prison. He pinched my ear till I could have kicked him! He thinks he is going to be a kind of lord here."

"Like King Arthur," put in Gypsy; "and we shall be the knights, only we don't love him like they loved Arthur!"

"I've just made up my mind what I shall do," said Claud, sticking his hands in his pockets, and his chin in the air; "I shall get one of those suits of armour off the wall, and dress up in one, and I shall go to his bedroom at night, and frighten him well!"

"You'd be a wicked boy, then," said Gypsy, who had a fellow feeling for any one frightened after dark, "and perhaps you'd make him into an idiot, like the boy that Gubby told us about!"

"We'll do it, Claud," said Donald with enthusiasm, "and we'll do it to-morrow night!"

"And then he'll take out his pistol and shoot you," pursued Gypsy; "and it will serve you right, for Arthur's knights never went about frightening people. Galahad wouldn't do it."

"I'm not going to be Galahad," said Donald, a little impatiently, "he was too good. I can't be good, so it's no use trying."

"Then you'll never see the Holy Thing."

"Well, you won't, so you needn't think it. You're not a bit better than we are; you're worse, for you're a girl, and girls are made to be good, and Jane says you kicked her this morning!"

"Well," said Gypsy, a little abashed, "she tried to shut me into a cupboard 'to keep me quiet,' she said. I was only just getting a blacking brush to clean Helen Mary's shoes, and it was only a tiny little soft kick on her dress! I told her I was sorry after, because I'm trying hard to find the Holy Thing!"

The boys did not listen to this defence; they were busily engaged in laying their plans for the next night. They had both a great longing to get down one of the suits of armour from the wall, and try it on, but the difficulty was to reach them. However, the next day they pressed Ned, the stable-boy, into their service, and when Miss Gubbins went down to dine with their brother, the three conspirators crept to the darkest corner of the big hall, and with great trouble the smallest suit of armour was unfastened, and Claud put into it. The weight of it astonished and alarmed him.

"I'm nearly buried," he said in a muffled voice; "I can't keep it on long, Don. Let me out!"

"No; you must come upstairs and hide in his bedroom, and wait till he comes to bed!"

"That will be hours and hours; it's so heavy; I can't wait all that time!"

After further consideration, they decided that Claud should hide in "Agony's" corner on the stairs, and pounce out upon his victim as he came upstairs. It was a great labour to help him up there, but that was accomplished at last, and then Donald ran up to tell Gypsy that everything was in readiness. The audacity of the exploit awed her, but though she felt in her small heart that trouble would follow, she could not resist creeping out of bed and down the stairs to see Claud in his armour.

"Oh," she said with clasped hands, "you look beautiful, Claud, dear."

"It's awful hot and uncomfortable," was Claud's response.

THE ARMOUR WAS UNFASTENED.

"Yes, but just think! You're like a real knight now, and no one would be able to hurt you, if you had a fight. Who do you feel like? Galahad or Lancelot?"

"Sh—sh! Here's some one coming!" cried Donald.

Away he and Gypsy scampered back to their beds, and Claud stepped behind the curtain.

It was only Miss Gubbins. Having left Victor to have a smoke, she was coming up to her own set of rooms. Claud held his breath while she went by. Though he was sorely tempted to show himself, he refrained from doing so, as he knew in that case his plan would be frustrated. Time passed very slowly. Donald and Gypsy did not return to him, and his shoulders and arms were aching from the heavy weight of his armour.

"It isn't much fun, after all," was his rueful thought.

And then at last he heard his brother's voice in the hall, and the quick, heavy tread up the staircase.

Opening the curtain, he strode out.

"Who goes there?"

The challenge was not given in such gruff, manly tones as was planned. If truth must out, it was a very thin quavering treble squeak, and Victor was not in the least alarmed. For a minute he stood still, regarding the queer little figure in front of him with some amusement; then in a very determined tone he said:

"This will never do. I can't have my old armour walking over the house in this style. I must string it up again, and drive a nail through the helmet to make it secure."

Before Claud knew where he was, he found himself tucked under Victor's arm and being carried downstairs as if he were a mere parcel.

He was too proud to call out, and the rapid movement through the air so bewildered him, that it was not till he fancied he actually felt a cord being tied round his neck, and expected to be slung up on the wall the next minute, that all his courage deserted him.

Then Victor heard a piteous little muffled cry out of the old visor:

"Oh, please let me out! I won't do it again, I promise! Please undo me, and let me go out!"

But Victor was not so easily persuaded.

"I'll tie you up here, whoever you are, and there you shall stay till I choose to release you."

Poor Claud found he was being secured effectually to an old stone pillar in the outer hall, and then, whistling unconcernedly, his step-brother pursued his way upstairs, and he was left alone in the darkness.

This was turning the tables on him with a vengeance! The servants' hall was too far off to hear his muffled cries for help; he ached from the heavy, cumbersome weight of the armour, and he longed with all his heart to be safe in his own little bed. He wondered if Donald would come to his rescue, but he would not think of looking for him downstairs, and poor Claud quite expected to be left there all night.

It seemed to be hours to him before he saw, through the dimly-lighted hall, the figure of his brother descending the stairs.

But he was liberated at last, and emerged from his knightly covering, a tearful, woe-begone little figure.

"Now off to bed with you, and let this be the last prank with any of the armour here!"

Claud crept up to bed, quite cured of his love of intimidating any "grown-up," but with less love than ever for the one who had outdone him.

CHAPTER VI

A Great Disappointment

CHANGES were rapidly made after the young master had come home, but Mrs. Peck was not got rid of without a terrible struggle, and Miss Gubbins had to leave her poetry books and brace herself for the conflict. She was victor at last, for she was backed up by the "master;" but it ended in five or six of the other servants giving notice, and only Smythe and the cook remained of the old set.

Being so busy with these household difficulties gave her less time than ever to look after the children, and they practically "ran wild," as the saying is. Victor still figured as the "Ogre," and was shunned accordingly; but the house was big and empty enough to furnish pastime away from him, and they did not trouble him with their noise. Claud introduced Gypsy and Donald one afternoon to "Sir Perceval," and they all agreed that he was the "very funniest, jolliest fellow" they had ever seen.

"So you're the little lady who has seen the Holy Grail?" he asked Gypsy, just before the children were taking their departure.

Gypsy drew near to the wheeled chair with soft, serious blue eyes.

"Yes, I really and truly did see it," she said steadfastly; "and I'm trying hard to be very good enough to see it again."

"I suppose you had been awfully good just before you saw it?"

"I don't think I was very," admitted Gypsy doubtfully, "but I got up very early in the morning to look for it; it says so, you know!"

The boys had moved off, interested in the antics of a young foal just outside the orchard, and Gypsy felt she could speak quite freely to this pleasant-faced young man.

"Does it?" her questioner said doubtfully, taking up a volume of Tennyson that he had been referring to during the children's visit. "I think it was chiefly seen at night."

"It says, 'Those that seek Me early shall find Me,'" pursued Gypsy; "the lady said I ought to be looking for Jesus, and I should find Him, and the Holy Thing belongs to Him, doesn't it? If you see it, that means you must be getting near Jesus. And I knelt down and said my prayers, and then I saw the Holy Thing, just like Gubby told us. A rose red light, and yellow, it came down right on me; and the boys say I'm telling stories, and it's the straight real truth!"

"Sir Perceval" gazed at the little speaker in astonishment, and a softened expression stole over his face.

"I thought I had found a little mystic who loved fairy stories," he said slowly; "but I've found a mite who is searching for the deepest truth on earth, ay, and in heaven itself! Seeking for the Lord Jesus Christ are you, little one?"

Gypsy nodded. "I'm wanting to find Him. If you're very very good, I think He shows Himself to you just for a little minute, and I would so like to see Him!"

Her little mouth took wistful curves as she spoke, and for a moment there was silence.

"And what do you want to see Him for?"

"I should like Him to tell me He loved me, and was pleased with me, and would let me come to heaven when I die! I think I might have seen Him another day, because I found the right room, but I've lost it, and it seems to have gone, and no one knows anything about it!"

Then after another pause, she asked eagerly: "Have you ever seen or heard Jesus, Sir Perceval?"

"Sir Perceval's" face was very grave now. All the sparkle had died out of his eyes.

"I did hear Him once," he said thoughtfully.

"Oh, how nice! And did you see the Holy Thing?"

He shook his head, then turned to look after the boys.

"We're getting into deep water," he said lightly, "and you're looking as grave as a judge. Don't you know that children ought always to be crying or laughing, and a solemn face is never allowed until you're grown-up and married!"

Gypsy walked home thoughtfully between the two boys. The longing to find her quest took a strong possession of her, and after the schoolroom tea was over that afternoon, again she wandered down the old passages, trying every door, in the hope of coming across the one she wanted.

She was much startled and delighted when at last, opening one door, she found herself on the threshold of the lost room.

GYPSY TRIES THE DOOR.

There was the beautiful coloured window; the walls lined with books; the large square table in the middle of the room, but, seated writing at this table was the Ogre!

For a moment the child hesitated, then her curiosity overcame her shyness, and she advanced with a radiant face.

Victor looked up and wondered at the intrusion.

"How did you find this room out?" he asked, a little impatiently. "I thought I was safe here from all disturbance. This room is not for you children. Run away!"

The gladness died out of Gypsy's face at once, but she stood her ground.

"You aren't going to keep it all to yourself?" asked with vehemence. "It's the room I found and I lost, and it's the room which the Holy Thing is in. I want to see it again, and the boys want to see it too, and they'll know I wasn't telling stories when they see it!"

Victor stared at her, and wondered what had wrought up her feelings to such a pitch that she could stand her ground before him, instead of running away directly she saw him, as was her custom.

"What on earth are you talking about?" he asked, laying down his pen, and leaning back in his chair with a yawn. "What is the 'Holy Thing,' may I ask?"

"You know. Haven't you seen it? It's what Sir Galahad saw, and what all Arthur's knights looked for, and I thought p'raps we should find it in this house, and I found it all by myself early in the morning, and it came through that window up there!"

Her words still were absolutely unintelligible to him.

"What came through the window?"

"The Holy Thing. That's what we call it. Gubby calls it the Holy Grail, and Don says it's the Holy Light; but I saw it, and I want to see it again."

Dimly, he began to understand, and he looked at his little sister with some interest.

"You don't mean to tell me that you harum-scarum youngsters are playing at such a game as searching for the Holy Grail? Can you carry your imaginations and pretences so far as to believe in it yourself, I wonder?"

"I don't understand. It wasn't pretence. It was real truth, and the Holy Thing came down on my head. I saw it. It fell on my fingers and dress."

The earnestness and intensity of her tone amused him.

"You are queer little creatures," he said; "but I can't have you romping in this old library; it is generally locked up, and I use it but seldom."

"But let me, oh, please let me come in here early in the morning! I will be very good. I won't touch a thing. I'll just come in like I did before, and kneel down and say my prayers, and then, perhaps, I shall see it again."

Victor laughed, and turned to his writing.

"Well, if you want to turn it into a private chapel for your devotions, I don't suppose you can do much harm, but no romps or games in it, remember, and when I'm using it, make yourself scarce. Now run along, and leave me in peace."

Gypsy instantly obeyed, and fled along the passage in trembling delight, calling out:

"Don! Claud! I've found it!"

The boys were so engrossed in letting themselves up and down over the banisters by means of a rope they had tied to the top rail, that they did not respond to their sister's call.

It was not till Miss Gubbins came out and forbade their fascinating occupation, and sent them all into the schoolroom to be quiet till tea-time, that Gypsy obtained a hearing. Then the boys were interested in it at once.

"Where is the room? Did you see the Holy Thing?"

"Of course she didn't if the Ogre was there; he would frighten anything away."

"We'll go and see it directly after tea."

"No," said Gypsy gravely; "he said we weren't to come in there while he was there; but to-morrow morning early, when he is in bed, we can go. And then you'll see I wasn't telling stories!"

"I don't believe we shall see it," said Donald sceptically. "I'm sure it's a make up of yours!"

"You won't see it unless you're very good," said Gypsy diplomatically, "and if you're cross and say I'm telling stories, you won't see it at all!"

"We'll just be as good as gold," Claud said earnestly, "until to-morrow morning, and then if it's all a pretend, you'll catch it hot."

Miss Gubbins wondered a little at the quiet and peace that reigned in her small kingdom for the rest of the evening. The children sat on the low window-seat, and talked in low tones, without the shadow of a dispute amongst them. They had hit upon the delightful plan of telling each other all the naughty things they might do, if they were not trying to be good, and all vied with one another in proving that their brain was the most fertile in concocting mischievous devices.

The only danger in this was that they began to have a longing to put them into practice, and Donald wound up by saying:

"If we don't see the Holy Grail after all, it will be no use trying to be good any more, and then I shall just try a few of our plans."

All this made little Gypsy very anxious. She felt as if great issues hung upon the early morning visit to the library, and for a long time that night tossed about restlessly in her sleep, until at last Miss Gubbins came over to soothe her.

"What is it, dear? Is anything troubling you? Have you had dreams?"

Gypsy's flushed little face and disordered curls turned over on the pillow.

"If we don't see it, we shall never be good again, the boys say so."

And Miss Gubbins crept back to bed, hoping that such a dreadful statement only existed in dreamland.

Very early the next morning Gypsy was in her brothers' room with shining eyes and eager face. It did not often fall to her lot to be leader, and she was a little proud, and very fearful of the responsibility attached to it.

The boys were up in a moment, and three little figures instead of one now stole down the long corridor and into the old library.

It was unlocked this time, though for one moment the stiffness of the door handle made Gypsy tremble lest after all they should not gain an entrance. But directly they stood inside her little heart was at rest. There through that wonderful window was the coloured light, and it fell full on their pathway in rays of crimson and gold. Awed and delighted, she turned in triumph to the boys, but no ecstatic joy shone in their faces.

With a broad grin Donald spoke, and his words ruthlessly shattered poor Gypsy's beautiful conception.

"Why, you little stupid! You don't think that's the Holy Grail? It's just the sun shining through the coloured glass! Just like a girl! Haven't you seen a painted window before? I have, in a church Gubby took me to once, and I remember it all shone over the clergyman, and gave him a red nose and a blue mouth; he did look so funny!"

"Fancy bringing us to see that, and telling us it was the Holy Thing!" said Claud contemptuously.

Poor little Gypsy! Her face fell, and big tears began to gather in her blue eyes. She had been so happy, so sure of the vision, and now it was roughly taken away from her, and the boys, instead of being awed and solemnized, were laughing loudly at her stupidity. She stood immovable for a moment, and then, flinging herself down on the floor, gave way to a fit of bitter weeping. Her distress touched Donald's heart. He sat down by her and tried to comfort her.

"Don't be a cry-baby. Anyhow, you found out a stunning room, and I'll come and have a good look for pictures in these old books, when the Ogre is out! There's nothing to make your eyes red over!"

"Go away!" sobbed Gypsy. "We've been good all for nothing, and I never shall find the Holy Thing, I know I shan't! And now you'll be wicked all day, you said you would, and it's all my fault!"

The boys looked at each other gravely, then Donald said slowly:

"Well, it isn't a regular make up of yours, because you thought it was real, so we'll try and not be extra bad. We promise not to make you help us, if you don't want to. Come on, Claud, let's have a race back to bed; the last one in gets a pillow shot!"

They disappeared, but Gypsy cried on, and a little prayer went up to the One who is always willing to hear and comfort the troubles of childhood.

"O God! I do seek early, but I can't find. Do let me see the Holy Thing soon, and help me to be good enough to find Jesus!"

Then she pattered away to bed, and finding Helen Mary on the floor, took her into her arms, and confided to her what had taken place. Helen Mary listened and smiled, and laid her cool wax cheeks against the hot tear-stained ones of her mistress, doing much towards bringing comfort to the disappointed little soul.

CHAPTER VII

Advising the Enemy

ONE sunny morning Victor stood on the hall doorsteps drawing on his gloves. His high dog-cart, with a spirited young horse, was being brought round by the groom, when he caught sight of Gypsy's fair head out of the schoolroom window watching his departure with interest. Some impulse prompted him to look up and say, "Would you like to have a drive with me this morning?"

Gypsy's head disappeared in a twinkling, but a minute after she was down in the hall, breathless, excited, and a little frightened at her audacity in accepting such an offer so hastily.

Victor glanced at her a little critically as he lifted her up and perched her between his knees, but her clean white frock and pinafore and freshly-starched sun-bonnet defied any criticism.

"How is it you are not playing with the boys?" he asked, as touching the cob smartly with his whip they trotted down the avenue.

"Don said they didn't want me because I couldn't be a knight, and I'm tired of being a rescued damsel. I said if they wouldn't play with me I should go over to the enemy. And then I was looking at you when you called me!"

"And who is the enemy?"

"Why, you," was the innocent reply, and then Gypsy caught her breath at this unwise speech, and wondered if the Ogre would be angry.

Her brother did not appear to notice anything peculiar in her statement. He drove on, and from her elevated position Gypsy watched the trees and fields skim by with delighted eyes. "It's lovely to go so fast," she said after a pause. "Don says he will drive us all out one day, when he can get a chance."

"I'm afraid that chance will be long in coming," said Victor, a little grimly; "those boys will have to be packed off to school soon, unless I can find a tutor for them in the neighbourhood."

"What's a tutor?" asked Gypsy, with dismay on her face.

Surely anything would be better than sending the boys off to school? What should she do without them?

"A chap who teaches—a schoolmaster. If I could find some fellow living near, I would send them to him for the day."

An inspiration seized Gypsy.

"There's a very nice fellow—at least Claud says he is, who lives at a farm across the fields. He is Sir Perceval, that's what we call him, but he has a very funny name of his own; and he draws lovely pictures that make us roar with laughing! His name is Bob Bogus, but he knows everything in the world, what the moon is made of, and how a frog changes his skin, and where pennies come from, and hundreds of questions we ask him. And he never says he doesn't know, like Gubby does. He has got stiff legs that won't move as they ought to, so he goes about in a chair, and he's so clever, he said he thought he could follow the hounds with it soon. Those are the dogs that hunt the foxes, you know. I asked him to tell me about it, and he said he used to be a hunter himself."

"Where does he live?" asked Victor, interested, though he was muttering, "Some farmer's cripple son, I suppose. Still, if he has had any education at all, he might keep them out of mischief for the present."

Gypsy pointed across the fields towards an old gabled farmhouse in the distance. "It's rather a long walk, but if you don't come by the road it's much shorter."

"I think we might pay him a visit on our way back," Victor said slowly. "How did you children get to know him?"

"Claud found him one day, when he was cross and ran away. Claud likes him very much, and so do and Don says he wishes he was our brother!"

"Instead of me?"

"Yes."

Gypsy's frankness was rather disconcerting.

"And why am I such an enemy?"

"I don't know. You always have been, I s'pose." Then, in a burst of confidence, Gypsy slid her little hand into his—"If you promise never, never to punish us, I'll be friends with you. I told the boys I would, and I'll try and not call you the Ogre any more."

"A most tempting bait," murmured Victor drily; "I ought to be overwhelmed with gratitude."

But he did not give the desired promise, and they drove on silently, till at last he pulled up at a large grey stone house, lying back behind some old shrubberies and lawn.

"I am going in here to speak to a gentleman on business. You must sit still till I come out. Don't move. I shall not be long."

A groom came forward to hold the horse, and Gypsy sat still, feeling rather proud of her position. Her quick eyes roved over the beautifully kept gardens before her, and presently, to her surprise, she saw a little girl come running forward with a dog at her heels.

She stopped when near, and looked up in astonishment at the small figure in the dog-cart. Then there was a glad cry of mutual recognition.

"Irene!"

"Gypsy!"

"However did you come here?"

"It's my home; how did you come?"

It was indeed Irene, and she was so excited at seeing her little seaside friend again, that nothing would satisfy her until she was lifted up into the cart by the groom, and was able to smother Gypsy with embraces and kisses.

"I thought I should never see you again; won't you stay and play with me? I should like it so much."

"The Ogre brought me over, and he's gone into the house, and told me not to get down."

"Never mind him; get out before he comes back, and I'll show you my arbour where I play!"

For a moment Gypsy wavered. The temptation was very strong, but she said slowly, "I don't think I'd better. I'm still trying to be good, because I'm beginning to look for the Holy Thing again. I won't give it up, though I know now it isn't in our house!"

This needed to be explained to Irene, who soon became quite content to sit and chatter with her little friend.

And when Victor came out, a quarter of an hour later, he found them fully engrossed in eager conversation.

He was accompanied by Irene's father, who looked surprised at his little daughter's position.

"Oh, please!" Gypsy cried out excitedly, addressing both the gentlemen. "Let Irene come home with me. We would like her to play with, and the boys said at the seaside she was very useful. Do let her come and spend the day with us."

"Are you old friends, then?" inquired Victor.

Gypsy explained the date of their acquaintance rather incoherently, but Irene's father lifted her down from the cart and bade her run away.

"I believe she ought to be at her lessons. My wife has just got a governess for her, but from all accounts she is a sad little scapegrace. Well, good day, Thurston. Hope you'll come over and dine with us next Thursday."

The little girls waved adieu to each other, and whilst Irene walked away dejectedly, Gypsy was lull of delightful anticipation of seeing more of her.

She chatted away quite unconstrainedly to Victor, who began to feel interested for the first time in his life in childish purposes and plans. He did not forget the visit to "Sir Perceval," and drove up in style to the old farmhouse, bringing out the farmer's wife and several men and maids, all full of curiosity to know his errand.

FOR A MOMENT VICTOR HESITATED.

"It will be Mr. Yates ye'll be meanin'," said the farmer's wife, a pleasant-faced woman, who gave Gypsy a friendly nod and smile. "Your young gentlemen are very fond of comin' over to see him. This way, please."

Victor lifted his little sister out, and they were ushered into the sitting-room, where they found "Sir Perceval" in his chair sketching busily.

He greeted them with his bright smile, and for a moment Victor hesitated. This was no farmer's son, and he might be offended at the proposition that was about to be laid before him. But Victor was always straightforward, and he plunged into his subject at once.

"I have not the pleasure of knowing you, Mr. Yates, and you must pardon me, if my errand seems to you a little strange. The fact is, I am on the lookout for some one in our neighbourhood who will undertake to give my small brothers a few hours' tuition every day. We want them taken off our hands for the morning, at all events. This child here suggested that you might do it, and I came to ask you if it were possible."

"Sir Perceval" put down his sketch, and looked a trifle confused.

"I am not a schoolmaster by profession," he said, a little haughtily.

Then Gypsy saved all further awkwardness by breaking in: "Oh, do say yes, Sir Perceval! We will be so good, and you will let me come too, won't you? The boys would do everything you told them; Gubby says they're always good when they're busy at lessons, and they like you even better than Gubby!"

"Sir Perceval" smiled at the child's earnestness; then he turned to Victor more graciously.

"I am an idle fellow, with plenty of time on my hands. I have matriculated at Oxford, and am supposed to be a good hand at classics. If you like to send your small brothers over to me, I will do my best with them for a few hours. But as to any terms, we must leave that out of the question. It will be an occupation and pleasure to me, nothing more."

Then Victor said stiffly:

"I am much obliged by your generous offer, but could not think of accepting it. I was led here by this child, but I see now what a mistake I have made. I hope you will forgive our intrusion. Good morning. Come, Gypsy."

He led the bewildered Gypsy out with the air of a prince, mounted his dog-cart, and drove off with her at a smart pace, muttering under his breath:

"Trust a child for landing one in awkward positions!"

Gypsy ventured a remark, but was snubbed at once, and the drive home was a quiet one.

The boys and Miss Gubbins were in the hall when they arrived, and Gypsy walked in with her chin well up in the air, delighted at the dismay and astonishment on her brother's face.

"We have been looking for her everywhere," said Miss Gubbins, addressing Victor; "I hope she has been good."

"Oh yes. I suppose we ought to have asked permission first, but we both acted on impulse." And with a friendly nod to his little sister, Victor walked away, whilst the boys seized hold of Gypsy's hands and raced her upstairs, bringing her in a breathless state to the schoolroom, and then eagerly questioning her as to her behaviour.

"What have you been doing?"

"Why do you come in grinning like that, as if you had been making up to the Ogre? Tell us at once."

Gypsy had subsided on the floor, but now she sat up and shook back her fair curls with a little importance in the gesture.

"I told you I would go over to the enemy if you didn't let me play with you, and so I have, and I've been advising him, and I like him—rather."

The last word was added hesitatingly.

Donald scowled at her.

"You're a mean little toad, that's what you are!"

Gypsy smiled provokingly.

"I've been a lovely drive, and you'll never guess who I've seen!"

"Who?" asked Claud curiously.

"I shan't tell you, unless you promise not to be cross."

There was silence, then Donald said with great severity:

"Did you ask the Ogre to take you to drive?"

"No, I didn't. He asked me."

The boys stared.

"Is that the very truth?"

"Yes. He called me out of the nursery window, and I'd nothing to do, and I went, because you wouldn't let me be a knight!"

"Who did you see? If you don't answer, we'll sit upon you."

Gypsy judged it better now to reply.

"Irene. She's living not far away from us."

There were great exclamations about this, and after Gypsy had given a full account of her meeting her, she said, with a sparkle of mischief in her eyes:

"And that's not all. The Ogre and me have been finding a schoolmaster for you. You're going to school somewhere, and we've been talking all about it, and we nearly found a schoolmaster, only something was wrong, I don't know what. You're too naughty to be kept here. I'm not going to school. I shall eat my dinner with the Ogre, and go out for a drive with him every day."

Assuredly Gypsy's head was quite turned. Never had she spoken to her brothers with such patronising condescension, and with one swoop they fell upon her, to punish such impertinence.

The three children were rolling over the floor, a confused heap of struggling arms and legs, with piercing shrieks and yells, when Miss Gubbins came into the room. She restored order, but for the rest of the day Gypsy revelled in her threats of school and tutors, and it was only during the quiet hour before bedtime, when Miss Gubbins always gathered them round her for some reading, that she so far relented as to tell them about "Sir Perceval."

"If he teaches us, it will be stunning!" exclaimed Claud. "And if he says he won't, I'll make him!"

"How will you?" asked Gypsy.

"Oh, I'll bother him into it. He likes us to come and see him, and I'll tell him if we go to school we'll never come near him again. He won't like that!"

"We'll go and ask him to-morrow," said Donald. "I would rather do lessons with him than with you, Gubby."

Miss Gubbins only smiled. "I am afraid your lessons have rather suffered lately. I shall have more time, now that things have settled down here, and I think we must begin work again, or you will have forgotten all you have learnt."

But the boys never learnt with Miss Gubbins again. Victor received a note the next day from "Sir Perceval," saying that he was quite willing to undertake the boys' tuition from nine to one o'clock every morning, and would agree to whatever terms he proposed. Victor swallowed his pride. Why should he prevent an idle young man from pleasing himself in such a matter? It is true he did not know much about him, but he looked and spoke like a gentleman; he had received a college education, and the boys were willing to go.

So Victor wrote and accepted his offer, and three days after, Donald and Claud set cheerfully off with school-books under their arms, and Gypsy watched them from the schoolroom window with tears in her eyes. It was a great disappointment to her that she was not to accompany them, and she proved a very listless, indifferent little pupil to Miss Gubbins.

"We've always done lessons together before," she wailed, "and now we shall never be the same again. I wish I'd never taken the Ogre to see Sir Perceval."

CHAPTER VIII

Night Wanderers

IT was Gypsy's birthday. She woke early in the morning, in glad anticipation of the eventful day. It had seemed such a very long time since her last birthday; and so much had happened lately that, as she had told the boys the evening before, she felt years and years older.

A great treat was in store for her. Irene was coming to spend the whole day with her, the boys had a holiday, and they were going to take their dinner out to a wood a little distance off. From dwelling on these delights in front of her, Gypsy's thoughts assumed a more serious form. She hugged Helen Mary closer to her, and began to talk in a whisper.

"I'm seven years old, Helen Mary, and I'm going to be a very good girl always now. And I'm going to look for the Holy Thing harder than ever. I must find it. Look at that text over there! 'Those that seek Me early shall find Me.' Oh, I wish I could! I wish I could! I shall go away and look for it, like Galahad did; it isn't in this house. I must go right away, and perhaps I shall find it on the top of a hill! I wonder if I could look for it when we're out to-day! I'll talk to Irene about it when she comes."

"Gypsy, many happy returns of the day, and here's my present!"

It was Claud, his head just inside the door, and Donald from behind him echoed the good wish; then, flinging two parcels on to her bed, they scampered away, and with trembling fingers and radiant face Gypsy opened her presents.

These were characteristic of the givers. A bull's eye lantern with a real candle in it from Donald; a bow and arrow from Claud; but Gypsy was supremely content with both, and they were more to her taste than the pretty little work-box given to her by Miss Gubbins.

They were chattering merrily over their breakfast when Victor opened the door and looked in. "Do you want the trap round at ten or eleven, Miss Gubbins? I suppose I must pay my respects to this important young woman. How many birthdays have you had?"

Victor was fast gaining Gypsy's confidence, though the boys still held aloof from him. At the sound of his voice she had run up to him, and had received a birthday kiss.

"I'm seven," she said proudly.

Victor put thumb and finger slowly into his waistcoat pocket, then held out a gold coin.

"I think you might be trusted with this, then. Don't spend it all on sugar-plums."

And whilst Gypsy was holding in her small palm a sovereign for the first time in her life, and hardly knowing how to express her thanks, he turned to talk to Miss Gubbins.

The boys came up to their sister at once.

"I wish it was my birthday," said Donald enviously, "I would buy such heaps of things that I want. I say, Gypsy, you can get a lovely set of cricket stumps and two bats for 10s. When are you going to spend it?"

Gypsy looked important.

"I must go to the shops and see," she said. "I shan't get any cricket unless I like."

"No, I'll tell you," said Claud eagerly, "buy a real gun that we can shoot rabbits with. You always said you would like to shoot, and we'll get old Sykes to take us out in the morning before breakfast."

These disinterested suggestions only half commended themselves to Gypsy, but the ownership of such a sum of money gave her much thought and anxiety.

The arrival of Irene soon turned her mind into other channels, there was so much to talk about and to show her. At eleven o'clock the waggonette was at the door, and Victor packed the children in, who were followed by Miss Gubbins.

When they were well out of sight of the house, Gypsy said, "I believe the Ogre would have liked to come with us."

"Oh, shut up!" exclaimed Donald. "You'll be getting so fond of him that you'll be tied to his coat-tails soon. You're a traitor, that's what you are!"

"It's my birthday," retorted Gypsy angrily, "and you're not to call me names!"

"Hush, children," said Miss Gubbins, "let us have no quarrelling. Try and show Irene how good you can be, not how naughty."

"I like naughty children best," said Irene quickly.

The boys grinned, but Gypsy looked grave.

"I'm trying to be very good to-day," she said, "and I shall look for the Holy Thing again. I expect I didn't find t before because I was too little. Seven is a lot older than six, isn't it, Gubby?"

"Yes," assented Miss Gubbins absently, as she took out a book from her pocket and began to read. "Now sit quiet, like good children. We have an hour's drive before us."

"You didn't look for it at the proper time," said Claud thoughtfully, crossing his legs with a grandfatherly air; "you ought to ride away in the forest just when the sun is setting, and when it's getting darker and darker, and then you see the light of it, and you follow it on."

"Yes," put in Donald, "and when Claud and I get some ponies to ride, that's what we mean to do. You will miss us one day, and then you will know where we have gone."

"It says, 'Seek Me early,'" said Gypsy, her eyes fixed earnestly on her brother's face.

"Of course. But it doesn't say you'll find it early. It's always late at night. Besides, that's a text you're saying. That doesn't come in 'Arthur and his Knights.'"

"But the Holy Thing means the same as the text, I know it does," argued Gypsy.

"I say, just lend me your bow and arrow, and let me have a shot at the birds as we go up this hill."

Gypsy held her lantern tightly in one hand, and her bow and arrows in the other. The sovereign was safely screwed up in a piece of paper in the bottom of her pocket. Nothing would induce her to leave these gifts at home. She demurred at trusting Donald with her bow.

"You'll be losing the arrows," she said.

"I'll jump out and pick them up again; we're going so slowly."

But Miss Gubbins forbade this suggestion being carried out, and they drove on through the sweet country lanes, up and down hill, until at last they came to their destination. It was a beautiful wood stretching away for a couple of miles to a breezy down beyond. For the next few hours the children enjoyed themselves as only children can. The picnic dinner came first, then games of hide and seek, and rambles after wild flowers, and nuts and blackberries. Irene laughed and chatted as merrily as any; her pale little face grew quite childlike and rosy with her exertions to imitate the others round her.

The tea was even more delightful than the dinner, for they were allowed to gather sticks and have a fire. It was when tea was over, and, rather tired with their play, they were lying on the grass watching the dying flames of the fire, that Donald spoke in his most peremptory and solemn manner.

"Agony is angry."

Claud and Gypsy looked at the smoke anxiously.

It was certainly very black, but they hoped every minute to see it clear. Irene had to be initiated into this game, and when they rose to their feet, and Donald said in the same impressive tone, "Follow me," she stole forward on tiptoe with the others, almost expecting to be led to her death.

Miss Gubbins called after them:

"You have one hour left before we pack up, so make the most of it."

Donald led them some distance through some thick bushes, and then paused before an old oak tree.

"We are to climb this right to the top," he said solemnly.

Claud looked delighted, Gypsy rather anxious, and Irene thoroughly frightened.

A little breathless whisper from Irene to Gypsy followed.

"I don't know how to climb. I can't do it."

"It's very easy if you don't go too high."

This was not reassuring to poor Irene.

Donald was already ascending, Claud following, when Gypsy said:

"I don't think Irene and I are coming. It's too difficult for us."

"You must come," Donald shouted.

But Gypsy felt very bold to-day. Was it not her birthday? Was she not now seven years old, and the possessor of a golden sovereign?

She turned away.

"Old Agony will let me off because it's my birthday. Come, Irene, we will go for a walk."

She darted off down a side path before the boys could stop her, and Irene scampered after her.

"Now we'll sit down under this tree," said Gypsy, assuming the air of generalship which she found very pleasant; "and we'll talk about the Holy Thing."

Irene listened and pondered, and then said slowly:

"I should like to find it. I would like to begin to look for it now."

Then Gypsy's blue eyes sparkled with a sudden inspiration.

"We will go this very evening, Irene. Now, at once. We couldn't have a better day than my birthday. Look! The sun is getting red behind those trees. The boys said that was the proper time to set out. And I've got my lantern and a candle, and some real matches in it. We put them there this morning. And you're carrying my bow and arrows. I've got three left, we might shoot some rabbits when we get hungry, and just fancy if we see the Holy Thing to-night! Wouldn't it be lovely?"

"Oh yes," cried Irene excitedly, "let us go at once, before it gets quite dark."

"We'll go along this path right through the wood."

Away they trotted hand in hand, with the blissful indifference of childhood to all future difficulties and dangers. They lived only in the present, they thought only of the present, it was natural they should act accordingly.

It seemed a long way to Irene, and at last her steps began to flag.

"Is it much farther?" she asked.

"I'm going on till we see the light," said Gypsy, trying to speak bravely, "and then we'll follow it."

But after a time even her courage gave way, and when they came to a deep ditch with dry leaves, which bounded one side of the wood, she suggested that they should sit down.

A few minutes after, huddled together, the two little girls fell fast asleep in each other's arms, and so soundly did they sleep that the shouts of those searching for them never reached their ears.

Gypsy was the first to wake, and when she did so it was quite dark. For a moment she wondered where she was. When she remembered, she roused Irene by violently shaking her.

"Wake up, Irene! We went to sleep and never said our prayers, and it's the middle of the night!"

Irene woke with a start, and a little shiver.

"I'm frightened; let's go home. I don't like the dark, and it's cold."

"We'll say our prayers, and ask God to show us the Holy Thing. Kneel down properly, Irene."

Two little figures with bowed heads and clasped hands repeated their usual formula of evening prayer. It was a still quiet evening; only the twittering of some restless birds and the distant hoot of some owls disturbed the silence around them. Strangely enough, Gypsy did not feel frightened. Her little soul was so wrought upon by the intense desire to find the Holy Grail, that she forgot everything else.

"O God," she murmured, "please let us find the Holy Thing to-night. We are trying to be very good, Irene and me; please don't let us have to go home without finding it."

"I'm very cold," said Irene, after prayers had been said, and they stood gazing at each other rather helplessly, wondering what was to be done next.

"I think," said Gypsy, "if we scramble through this hedge we shall see how to walk better. Let us try to get through this hole here."

This feat was accomplished, and through the deepening darkness they saw stretching away before them an open common. It was a dreary sight. Irene caught hold of her little companion's hand very tightly.

"We're very—brave—and—good—to—to come—aren't we?" she said in a quavering voice.

"I'm sure we shall see the light soon," Gypsy responded, in a cheerful little voice. "You see Galahad rode away into the dark, and Sir Perceval after him, and Gubby told us the storm came on, and lightning and thunder, and rain, and still he went on following the light."

"Look!" interrupted Irene. "Look!"

Gypsy started. There, in front of them, shone a light, and her little heart beat quickly.

"It has come, Irene. Quick! Let us run after it; it will lead us straight to the Holy Thing itself!"

Away they scampered over the short grass and dry bracken, and steadily, though surely, the light moved on in front of them.

CHAPTER IX

A Strange Awakening

BUT run as they might, they could not overtake it, and at last, to their bitter disappointment and grief, it faded away in the distance, and they were left alone in the darkness once more. Then Irene's fortitude forsook her. She burst into frightened sobs.

"I'm so tired and hungry. I want to get home. Do take me home, Gypsy; I don't want to look for the light any more.

"Don't cry, Irene; perhaps we shall see it again."

But Gypsy's tone was forlorn. She looked round her in vain. No light was to be seen. Then a bright thought struck her.

"We'll make a light ourselves, Irene. I'll light my lantern. I've got some matches."

Irene stopped crying, and the little girls, with a great deal of fuss and difficulty, struck a match, and lighted up their small lantern. This did not seem to improve matters. Dark shadows seemed to collect across their path, and Gypsy, worn out and frightened at last, sat down on the ground, and sobbed out—

"I wish we hadn't come. I'm afraid we're lost for ever!"

"Are there any wolves, do you think?" wailed Irene. "Can't we go back, Gypsy?"

"I don't know which is back or front," was the sobbing reply.

To add to their discomfort, a drizzling rain now set in. They crouched on the ground together with shivering limbs and chattering teeth, but presently another light shone out, and Gypsy raised her head with eager expectancy.

"It's the Holy Thing," she said.

But Irene's quick ears had caught a familiar sound. "I think it's somebody in a carriage," she said.

And a few minutes later, out of the darkness appeared a cart and horse, with a lantern tied in front. It was only a tinker and his wife returning' home from a neighbouring fair, but the children hailed them with delight.

"We're lost; take us home!" they cried.

The tinker, a burly-looking man, a little the worse for drink, stopped his horse.

"Now then, what are you a-doin' of 'ere?" he demanded. "Do 'ee want to scare all decent folks a-passin' by? What be 'ee a-doin' of?"

"Oh, do take us away from here!" cried Irene. "We're lost, and it's so dark and cold!"

The tinker considered. His wife, who had all her wits about her, got out, and without another word-lifted both the little girls into the cart.

"There ye be; sit still, and we'll give ye a lift to the next town. Drive on, Tim, ye stupid, or we shall be out all night!"

Tim drove on slowly.

"What be 'ee a-goin' to do with 'em?" he asked surlily. "We ain't got enough bread for ourselves, let alone other folks' brats!"

Gypsy was so full of relief and thankfulness at being taken up, that her spirits rose at once.

"I've got some money," she assured him cheerfully; "a whole sovereign in my pocket, and I will buy some cake and buns for Irene and myself when we come to some shops. We're very hungry, for we haven't had anything since tea, and we always have some supper at home before we go to bed."

Furtive glances were exchanged between husband and wife, and then the woman said kindly—

"You'd best let me have that money, my dear, to spend for ye. Little ladies don't know what be good for 'em."

Before Gypsy could expostulate, the woman's hand was in her pocket, and the precious coin was transferred to another's care.

Gypsy grew a little uneasy, but she was too tired to express her feelings, and soon both she and Irene were fast asleep, the cart rattling along at an increased speed, and the owners of it talking in low tones, with many sidelong glances at the sleeping children.

Gypsy was roused with a start. She was being lifted out of the cart, and Irene, more asleep than awake, was deposited on a doorstep in a dark narrow street.

Before they could ask any questions, the cart had driven rapidly on, and they were left alone in the silence and darkness of the night.

"Irene, wake up! What has happened to us?"

But Irene did not reply—her sleep was sound—and then Gypsy sat down by her, and whilst considering gravely in her little mind what had better be done now, was again overtaken by sleep, and neither child woke till broad daylight.

Irene was the first to open her eyes, and very bewildered and frightened she was for the first few minutes.

"Gypsy, where are we? Are we in a dream? Do wake up and tell me."

Then Gypsy came to her senses, tried to stand up, but fell back on the doorstep with a little cry.

"My legs are quite stiff, and oh, Irene, we haven't got any boots on!"

"GYPSY, WHERE ARE WE?"

"And my jacket has gone, and so has your cape!"

"How did we get out of the cart? We must have left our boots behind us!"

Irene staggered to her feet, and looked around her. The sun was shining brightly, but it was still very early. They were seated on the doorstep of a long low white house on the outskirts of a small country village. The house had green shutters to the windows, and a brass plate on the door which shone like burnished gold. All was quiet inside, and Irene said, a little hesitatingly—

"Shall I ring the bell, Gypsy? Some one inside might be sorry for us, and give us our breakfast."

Gypsy stared up at the house, and then looked away over to some hills behind which the sun was rising in a bed of golden glory.

The experience of the past night with all its misery rushed upon her, and she turned to her little companion with passionate protest in her tone:

"I've tried as hard as ever I could to find the Holy Thing. I've got up early, and now we've stayed up all night, and lost our boots, and don't know where we are! and it hasn't come to us, and it never will! And I don't believe there's any Holy Thing in the world at all! And I believe Galahad only saw the sun!" She buried her curly head in her arms, and burst into tears.

Irene could not comprehend the depths of woe that had overtaken her; she only felt they were cold, miserable, and hungry, and stretching up her little hand she rang the bell with such vehemence that it roused the inmates from their slumbers. A window was opened overhead.

"The doctor is away! Who is there?"

"Oh, do let us in," was Irene's wailing cry, "we're lost, and we want to get home."

A few minutes after the door opened, and an elderly maid-servant only partly dressed drew them gently in.

"You poor little dears! Wherever have you come from? Hush, hush, then, don't cry, we'll look after you, and see you home again. Why, your clothes are quite damp. You must have been out all night. Come this way, Jane will have just lighted her fire, and we'll soon get you warm and dry."

They were led into a bright cheerful kitchen, and before long, rolled up in blankets, were seated in two big chairs enjoying basins of hot bread and milk. Gypsy then tried to tell her story, but it was not surprising that it should sound absolutely unintelligible to the two maids, who came to the conclusion that she must be delirious from fright and exposure.

"I live with Gubby, and the boys, and the Ogre. It's the Ogre's house. I don't know what it's called. It's full of armour like King Arthur's knights had. We wouldn't do what Agony told us, because it was too difficult, and we ran away to find the Holy Thing, and it got dark, and we thought we saw the Holy Light once, only it ran away from us, and then we got into a cart, but we didn't get out of it, and then we found ourselves here."

This story was repeated an hour later to two ladies who came into the kitchen, and who looked upon the little girls with consternation and amazement.

One was in a widow's dress, and the elder of the two, but she seemed more youthful in looks and manner than her younger sister, who regarded them with soft, pitying eyes.

"You're quite sure they're not village children, Mary," said the widow, Mrs. Webster by name; "they might be anybody's in those blankets, but they look clean, and one of them is decidedly pretty. Make them talk, Mary, and we shall soon see by their accent what class they belong to!"

Mary turned to Gypsy. "Tell the ladies where you come from, dear, and all about yourselves."

Gypsy repeated her story, and Mrs. Webster listened, then turned to her sister excitedly.

"Isn't she a pretty little thing, Helen? She talks as if she has come out of a fairy tale. Who is the Ogre, and Agony, and Gubby? And what is the Holy Thing? They will enliven our dulness. Are they lost children? For I vote we keep them here for a time, and say nothing about it. I always dote on children—if they are pretty!"

Helen shook her head at her sister, as she might to a naughty child, then she bent over the children.

"They look flushed and feverish, Mary," she said gravely: "I think you had better put them in the large spare-room bed, and let them have a good sleep. They evidently want it, and after that we will talk about what we will do with them."

"Yes, miss, you are right. They're both worn out, and a sound sleep will do them all the good in the world."

So to bed Gypsy and Irene went, and for some days after, Gypsy's mind was sadly confused. The wetting and exposure brought on a great deal of fever, and she narrowly escaped an attack of rheumatic fever. Irene was very little the worse, and amused Mrs. Webster downstairs by her old-fashioned talk, whilst Helen nursed the little invalid.

"I don't care for sick nursing," Mrs. Webster said plaintively, "I always get so over-anxious and depressed. You ought to be a stoic to be a successful nurse, and that I could never be."

The sisters had only lately come to the neighbourhood, to make their home with their bachelor brother Doctor Scott. He was away for a day or two when the children made their appearance, but returned in time to doctor Gypsy, and was as much mystified as his sisters as to their whereabouts.

It was impossible to gain any information from Gypsy, and Irene either wilfully or stupidly would not help them. Truth to tell, for the first time in her small life, she was enjoying the importance of her position. Mrs. Webster petted and flattered her, and drew her out to talk for her amusement. And Irene had visions of her governess's wrath upon her return home; and the dreary loveless life she lived seemed much less desirable than her present one. She did not want to leave Gypsy, she did not want to be sent home; and with wonderful astuteness for so small a child, she parried all their questions, even going so far as to omit her surname and give her two baptismal ones instead.

"My name is Irene Stuart; I live ever so far the other side of Gypsy's home. I don't know where it is now, for we came such a long way in the cart, and it was dark. Father and mother are in London, they won't miss me, and Miss Carr is horrid. She makes me do lessons all day. Do keep me here till Gypsy is better; I will be very good, I promise I will."

"What is the name of your house?"

It was the doctor who spoke. He was standing opposite Irene, leaning against the drawing-room mantelpiece, and the little girl was seated close to Mrs. Webster, looking at an old-fashioned photograph album.

"She looked up a little puzzled: I don't think it is called anything," she said slowly.

"But you must know where you live? Are you in a town, or village, or where?"

"We live quite by ourselves," was the prompt reply, "and there are fields and trees, and woods all round us; we don't live in a town, and our door doesn't open into the road like yours does."

"Don't tease her, poor mite, with so many questions," said Mrs. Webster, quite as unwilling as the child herself for her home to be known; "Irene is very happy with us, and I have a great idea of adopting her as my child. She says she was 'born all wrong,' Frank, think of that! And girls aren't wanted in her family!"

"I shall write to the police at once, and advertise," said Dr. Scott, a little sternly; "it seems an extraordinary thing that two children should be lost about here, and we unable to trace their belongings. Their friends must be in a terrible state about them."

Irene looked terrified at the name of "police," and slipped her little hand in Mrs. Webster's.

"We aren't going to be put in prison for running away, are we?" she whispered. "We didn't mean to be naughty. Gypsy said it was a good thing to do—to find the Holy Light!"

"Hear her!" said Mrs. Webster, with a rippling laugh. "Oh, how delicious children are! Do you know what this quest is, Frank? Have you heard of a Holy Thing or a Holy Light that all good people run after?"

"Perhaps they mean the Holy Grail," said Dr. Scott gravely.

Irene clasped her hands delightfully.

"That's the other name for it," she said; "I remember now. Do you know the way to it?"

She was looking at the doctor rather shyly under her long dark lashes, and he gave a short little laugh.

"I wonder you didn't try to get to the moon," he said; "it would have been just as easy!"

Irene flushed at his mocking tone, and said no more until he had left the room; then she turned to Mr. Webster.

"It's a good thing we didn't go on, if it's as difficult as that, Gypsy said it was no good, for she'd tried as hard as ever she could, and it wouldn't be found. I don't think I shall ever run away to look for it again."

CHAPTER X

Claimed

POOR little Gypsy lay for many days in partial unconsciousness and in great pain. Her delirium was trying to witness: "Oh, save me! Save me! Agony is coming. I didn't mean to disobey her. Run, quick, quick! It's going away from us. I will be good, if only I can see it. Oh, keep me, it's so dark, so hot!"

Helen Scott never left her, and then, one afternoon, very weak and very exhausted, Gypsy came back to the full consciousness of her surroundings. She gazed round the room with languid interest; there was a bright fire burning in the grate; flowers and grapes on a small table close to her, and looking down upon her with a sweet smile, a tall slight girl in navy blue serge, with a wealth of brown hair coiled round a proud and shapely head.

Helen Scott was beautiful. She had not the sparkling vivacity and brilliant colouring of her sister, but there was an earnestness and fire in her grey eyes, softness and determination in her sensitive lips, and a sweet gravity in her tone and manner which contrasted favourably with the flippancy and careless levity of the young widow.

"Your face and tone are a silent protest against my love of fun," Mrs. Webster would often say, and perhaps it was so. Yet Helen could cast aside her stateliness when alone with those she really loved, and when her face lightened, and her laugh rang out, she was irresistible.

"WHERE AM I?"

"Well, darling, you feel better, don't you? Do you know where you are?"

"I'm very comfortable," said Gypsy, with a little sigh. "Where's Gubby?"

"Do you want her? She came to see you the other day, and would have stayed altogether, only one of your brothers sprained his ankle, and she left me to take care of you."

Then Gypsy looked puzzled, and pushed her hair off her forehead with a hot little hand.

"I don't remember. Where am I?"

Helen sat down by her side and took hold of her hand.

"Don't talk, darling; but listen. You and Irene lost your way, and came to our house. We took you in, and put you to bed, and you have been very ill. We could not find out where you lived at first, so we advertised in the newspaper, and the same day your brother, Mr. Thurston, rode over to inquire about you. He took Irene back to her home, but you were too ill to be moved, and so you have stayed on with us. Your brother comes over to see you very often, and you must make haste and get well, because they want you home again."

Gypsy pondered over this explanation. Feeling it was satisfactory, she turned over on her side and went fast asleep.

When she awoke, Victor was standing by her bedside.

"Well, little one, do you know who I am?"

"The Ogre," said Gypsy with a smile, and holding out her hand, which looked very small and white.

"That is my character," said Victor rather grimly, looking straight at Helen standing by.

She smiled.

"The puzzle is solved. We wondered for a long time who the Ogre could be. You have been much in her thoughts."

"When will you be ready to come home?" Victor asked, looking at his little sister very gravely. "The boys are clamouring for you, and Miss Gubbins is quite lost without you. Shall I take you home to-night?"

Gypsy looked from one to the other in doubt, but Helen spoke:

"Not to-night, Gypsy. We must get a little more flesh upon your bones before we send you back. The boys will think we have been starving you."

Another voice now made itself heard.

"May I come in and see the little resurrection? Oh, Mr. Thurston, I did not know you were here. Good-evening; have you swooped down upon us to carry our treasure off? I owe you a grudge for tearing from my arms the little dark-haired 'mistake,' as I called her. How is she? Why are some people so indifferent to their offspring, I wonder? Did they give you as much as a 'Thank you' for bringing her back to them? You must know I adore children, and feel very aggrieved at Helen's selfish monopolisation of this little pet."

Helen's brow contracted, but she made room for her sister to come to Gypsy's side, and Mrs. Webster bent down and kissed and fondled Gypsy with great effusion.

"You poor dear little tiny atom of a creature, all eyes and mouth! What a time you have gone through! Tell your brother you will not leave us yet. Tell him we want to mother you, and hear your ringing laugh about the house. He shall not come and steal you away, like the wicked Ogre he is!"

She glanced up laughingly into Victor's impenetrably grave face, and made a pretty picture with her golden head touching the tiny one on the pillow, and her arms encircling the sick child.

Gypsy regarded her with great composure, but with a little curiosity.

"I don't know you," she said. "I don't think I've seen you before."

"Oh, you darling! How naïve children are! You haven't known any one around you whilst you have been so ill. I have often stolen in to have a look at you when the dragon who guarded you so closely was off her watch. Must you be going, Mr. Thurston? Now I insist upon your coming into the drawing-room and having a cup of tea before you leave. Don't say no. It is all ready; it is the least we can offer you."

She rustled out of the room, and Victor, stooping to kiss his little sister, followed her.

Helen came back to the bedside again.

"Tired, darling, are you not? I am going to give you some nice chicken jelly, and you mustn't talk. We shall have plenty of time for that by-and-by!"

Day by day Gypsy gained strength, and soon was quite convalescent. Miss Gubbins came over several times to see her; but her time was much occupied at home, and Claud's accident had taken up a great deal of her attention. Helen assured her that she loved nursing Gypsy, and was determined not to let her go till she was obliged.

And Gypsy, though anxious to be with her brothers again, was quite content with her surroundings. One afternoon, when she was sitting up in a large easy chair, she said, with a little sigh to Helen:

"Do you think it's no good for me to look for the Holy Thing any more?"

It was the first time she had touched upon the subject; but Helen knew all about it, and replied gently:

"Do you want very much to find it, darling? What good will it do you?"

Gypsy pondered for a minute.

"It will show me God is pleased with me, won't it? Besides, I have learnt the text that says, 'Seek Me early, and ye shall find Me.' We must find, the Bible says so."

"What do you think the Holy Thing is, Gypsy?"

"I think," the child said, in an awed whisper, "that it is a light that leads us straight to Jesus, and I want to see Him. Gubby says she thinks Galahad saw a bit of heaven, and went straight into it. I don't want to go to heaven, but I want to see Jesus down here. And if I could find the Holy Thing, I believe it would show me Him. He did show Himself in the Bible to people, didn't He? Oh! Don't you think if I try again I might one day see Him?"

"Do you love Jesus, Gypsy?"

"Yes, everybody does, don't they? I try hard to be good."

"And are you one of His little children?"

Gypsy was silent; then she said, "Has Jesus any naughty children? I'm not always good, you know, and sometimes I'm afraid of being shut outside the gold gates; that's why I want to find Jesus. I mean to ask Him something."

"What is it?"

Gypsy's tone was very earnest. "I mean to ask Him to promise me faithful that He will let me come inside heaven on the Judgment Day."

"What do you know about that?"

"Gubby has a very old picture Bible, and the boys and me like the Judgment pictures, but they're very frightening, and there are some children hiding under some stones, and a lot of people tearing their hair, and there's fire and smoke, and great cracks and holes in the earth. I dream about it ever so often, and I wake up just as I'm trying to creep under a stone. It's dreadful."

"But, Gypsy, darling, you need not wait till you see Jesus to ask Him to save you from that. You can ask Him now in this room. He is here, though you can't see Him."

"But I want to see Him," persisted the child rather querulously, for her weakness made her fretful, "and I'm sure the Holy Thing will let me find Him!"

Helen, seeing the rising flush on her cheek, forbore to say any more; and Gypsy did not allude to the subject again.

Only when Victor came to see her, a few days after, and asked her if he could do anything for her, she replied promptly:

"Yes, read me about the Holy Thing."

He laughed when Helen, without a word, handed him Tennyson's poem. But he sat down, and in a soft and mellow voice read the Holy Grail from beginning to end.

Gypsy listened with knitted brows.

"It's dreadful difficult how you read it," she remarked severely: "Gubby always makes it easy to us, and leaves out the long words."

"Gubby is a miracle! I cannot hope to be as clever as she. Well, you little oddity, hasn't it satisfied you?"

"Have you ever tried to find it?"

The question was asked rather breathlessly.

"No, nor do I want to. The world is too wicked, Gypsy; that sign has been taken away from us! We don't live in King Arthur's days. We see no visions now!"

"Sometimes I think the older days were best," said Helen gravely. "We are so easily and readily satisfied with all that goes on around us. We have no pilgrimages to teach us self-denial, no quests except for earthly treasures and ambitions. It is those who think least of themselves that strive to reach a high goal. And I suppose the sin of our age is self-assertion and self-satisfaction."

"You are a philosopher, Miss Scott," said Victor, smiling at her earnest tone and kindling eyes.

Gypsy struck in rather irrelevantly:

"Will Sir Perceval teach me lessons, now I've had a birthday?"

Her brother shook his head.

"Miss Gubbins will teach you for a good time yet, you mustn't want to leave her. She is very fond of you."

"Yes, I like Gubby, but I like Miss Helen too. Will she come and see us when I get home?"

"Perhaps she will if you ask her nicely."

Conversation was interrupted here by the entrance of Mrs. Webster. She generally found her way to Gypsy's room when she had visitors, and somehow or other if Victor was there, he soon followed her to the drawing-room. He certainly paid his little sister wonderful attention, for he was over to inquire after her two or three times every week; and before long he was almost looked upon as one of the family. He did not urge Gypsy's removal, he seemed quite content that she should remain with her new friends, and Miss Gubbins had at last to remonstrate very seriously with him.

"Gypsy is quite well enough to be moved by this time, it is trespassing on their kindness in having her."

"They are two idle women," he returned, with an easy shrug of his shoulders; "and both tell me Gypsy is a source of great amusement and interest to them. Why should we deprive them of her just yet?"

"I do not like the child to be nursed by strangers," said Miss Gubbins, rather stiffly; "she is my charge, and if you will not have her moved home yet, I shall leave you and the boys, and go to her."

"That is an awful threat! You know you have me in your power. I would not be left in this house two days with those imps of mischief without your protection. When do you want her back? Next week?"

"To-morrow," replied Miss Gubbins firmly; "you are going over there this afternoon, so you can tell them I will come in the close carriage for her, at any time that suits them best."

Miss Gubbins had her way, and the next day Gypsy took leave of her friends with much regret.

Helen received a very tight hug, and was made to promise that she would come and see the boys very soon.

"And may I not come too?" asked Mrs. Webster, bending over Gypsy with one of her radiant smiles.

Then Gypsy made a very blunt reply:

"You can come and see the Ogre if you like. Miss Helen belongs to me, the boys will like her, I know."

"Don't you like Mrs. Webster?" asked Miss Gubbins, as she was driving away in great satisfaction at having the little girl once again under her wing.

"No," said Gypsy, nestling against the kind arms round her; "I like Miss Helen, she's always the same, but sometimes Mrs. Webster doesn't take any notice of me at all, and she's cross to Trixy—he's such a dear little dog, Gubby—she kicked him yesterday! I don't like her at all."

THEY TALKED AS ONLY CHILDREN CAN.

CHAPTER XI

A Glimmer of Light

THE boys were delighted to have their little sister back again. After tea they all sat round the nursery fire on the hearthrug, and talked as only children can. Claud's foot was nearly well, but he made the most of his accident, and was most anxious that Gypsy should hear all about it.

"You see it has been a beastly job, and it was really all through you, Gypsy, that I did it. Of course, when you were lost, Don and I meant to find you. And when we came home late on your birthday, and Gubby cried, and all the servants turned out, and the Ogre looked as black as thunder and ordered his horse, Don and I thought we would get horses too, and that old Ogre actually collared us in the stable, and marched us into the house and locked us in up here, just think of that!

"Serve him right that he was out all night, and never found you!" exclaimed Donald, wrathful at the remembrance of this indignity.

"And just fancy his packing us off to lessons the next morning, as if nothing had happened! We tore away to Sir Perceval, and he was in a fume! He said he only wished he could get out of his chair, and look for you, and he said he thought you might have gone after the Holy Grail. He said there was a look in your eyes that made him think you would, when the chance came, and you did, didn't you?"

"Yes, I really did," nodded Gypsy, with a grave importance.

"Well, he's an awfully good chap, you know, so he raced us over our lessons, and then let us go, and we weren't going home—we went out in the farm-yard and got two of the cart horses, and Don said we were now knights in earnest, riding out to rescue a stolen damsel. We rode on ever so far, and then we had to ford a river, that's what the Ogre calls it, and Don got across all right, but my stupid beast, I think he twisted round and turned head over heels, anyhow I came over his head, and he kicked me, and I lay in the water nearly drowned to death, and in exasperating pain!"

"Yes," put in Donald, with a little chuckle, "he looked like a fat shark, bellowing on his chest, and the water not covering him. I had to get off my horse and drag him out, and he was yelling all the time; a fine knight he made!"

"And what did you do then?" asked Gypsy with much interest. "Did you get on your horse again and carry him home?"

"He couldn't get on his horse, it was too big for him, we had climbed on them at the farm from a gate," said Claud. "He ran down the road and fetched a man out of a cottage, and he carried me home, and the doctor was sent for, and Gubby made no end of a fuss. I was awfully hurt, I can tell you, and I'm not well yet!" Claud clasped both his arms round his ankle as he spoke, and Gypsy expressed great pity for him.

"We never saw the Ogre in such a stew before," said Donald; "he marched up and down the hall, and gave orders in a regular bellow to the grooms and people looking for you! And when three days passed, and you hadn't been heard of, Claud and I made up our minds you weren't coming. And Claud marched up to the Ogre and told him not to fuss himself any more about you, for you had gone like Galahad after the Holy Grail, and if you had really found it, you wouldn't come back!"

Gypsy opened her eyes widely at this.

"Well, you know, we did follow a light. Perhaps if we'd been a little quicker, we shouldn't have lost it as we did. Oh, I wish I had found it, I wish I had!"

And then she began to give them her adventures in detail, the boys listening with wonderful patience. Somehow or other Gypsy's escapade had raised her in their respect. They admired her for her pluck in going off on such a pilgrimage when darkness was surrounding her. And when they went to their lessons the next morning, they were full of what had befallen her.

Sir Perceval listened, and his eyes twinkled as they invariably did at any of the boys' recitals.

"We very nearly lost the little elf," he said; "and I fancy she has been very close on Galahad's track!"

"Do you think she really was? How?"

"I think she was very nearly through the river, from what I hear."

"Do you mean she nearly died? Gubby told us that, but Galahad didn't die, he just disappeared!"

"Ah, well, so they say; but what is death but just disappearance?"

"I shouldn't like to die," said Claud thoughtfully, "I'm afraid I'm not good enough. Would you like to die, Sir Perceval?"

Sir Perceval heaved a sigh, then gave a short laugh.

"I think I should have liked to die when I was Gypsy's age. Come, youngsters, where are your books? Remember you are here to learn, not to talk!"

It was not long before Helen Scott came over, but she was accompanied by Mrs. Webster, and Victor happened to be at home, so he, and not the children, entertained them. Gypsy was still far from strong, and the cold weather setting in, was kept much in the schoolroom. Helen came to her there for a short time, and promised to come again before long. This she did, but she never came alone, and the two ladies were so much in and out, that the children soon began to hear some unwise gossip amongst the servants.

Donald marched into the schoolroom one afternoon as tea was just commencing with his head in the air; a sure sign that he had something important to communicate.

"What do you think cook was saying to Jane just now?" he said, slipping into his chair, and addressing Miss Gubbins with great solemnity. "She said there would be a new missis here before long, and she hoped it would be the dark one, not the golden head, but it was difficult to tell!"

"The Ogre won't have any housekeeper while Gubby is here," said Claud confidently.

"Who is dark, and who has a golden head?" asked Gypsy.

Then Miss Gubbins spoke.

"Hush, children. Donald, what were you doing in the kitchen? You know how much I dislike your listening to the servants' talk."

"I wasn't in the kitchen, I was in the yard feeding the puppy, and cook was talking at the door. What a stupid you are, Gypsy! Of course it was your Miss Helen and her sister they meant. The Ogre is going to marry them!"

"Both?" gasped Gypsy.

"Yes," went on Donald delightedly, "he's going to have two wives—Ogres always do. He'll keep Miss Helen for a kind of best Sunday wife, and Mrs. Webster will do all the work in the week."

"Who is going to do all the work?" asked a voice suddenly, and Victor stood in the doorway.

He was a very frequent visitor in the schoolroom about this time. He liked to come in and have a cup of tea and a little chat with Miss Gubbins, and even the boys were beginning to find that he was not always so formidable as they loved to consider him.

Gypsy on the impulse of the moment made a rush at him, and in a tearful voice sobbed out, "Oh, say you aren't going to do it! You won't marry both, will you? Let Mrs. Webster go away, and never come back again! Don't let her live here!"

Poor Miss Gubbins flushed a deep crimson; she tried to call Gypsy to the table, but Victor frowned ominously, roughly detached Gypsy's clinging little hands from his own, and with the words: "I wish to goodness, Miss Gubbins, you would stop such impertinent talk!" He quitted the room instantly, slamming the door vigorously behind him.

"There's a fury!" exclaimed Donald.

"You are very naughty children to talk about such things," said Miss Gubbins, trying to recover herself, "and I shall be very angry if you mention it ever again to anybody."

But the mischief was done. Victor was gloomy and preoccupied for the next few days, and was away from the house when the ladies called. Then their visits ceased, and Gypsy began to wonder if her new friend had deserted her altogether.

When she was quite well again, she was allowed to go over and spend a long day with Irene, who welcomed her with much warmth and affection. Her governess, a tall, grave-looking person, kept a close watch over their actions, for after such an escapade, she received Gypsy with great distrust.

"Were you very glad to get home again, Irene?" asked Gypsy, as the little girls were sitting in a corner of the schoolroom playing with some toys.

"No, I wasn't. But I wasn't punished. I was only scolded."

"And what did your father and mother say?"

"I don't think they properly knew about it; Miss Carr told them a little. They were in London, you know. I wish I hadn't been found. Do you remember at the seaside long ago you told me to run away, Gypsy? Well we did it, didn't we?"

"Yes; I wonder if those people in the cart were gypsies. They stole our boots, Gubby says. She says she thinks I've been punished pretty hard for running away, for do you know, Irene, I've lost all three of my birthday presents. My gold sovereign, and my bow and arrow, and my lantern. And I've been ill too."

"Being ill isn't a punishment, it's very nice. I wish I could be ill," said Irene; "people make a fuss over you. Baby was ill over his teething, and mother sat up with him all night. She didn't go to bed at all, and she took him in her lap, and she had on her best black satin dress, and father ran all the way in the rain for the doctor himself. I've never sat in mother's lap all my life, even if she has on dresses that don't matter tumbling. I wonder if I was ill whether she would nurse me?"

"Of course she would."

"I wished I could live with that nice lady at the doctor's—Mrs. Webster—she was so kind to me, but I think she got tired of me the last day, when your brother came to see you. She pushed me away from her, and said I had made her so untidy, and she hardly said good-bye to me when the time came."

"I like Miss Helen best," said Gypsy thoughtfully.

"Gypsy, do you mean what you said, that it's no good ever looking for your Holy Thing again? Is it all a make up?"

"Oh no," said Gypsy, a little hesitatingly, "I'm only rather afraid people don't see it now. Miss Helen has talked a lot with me about it, and now I'm seven years old, I'm going to read the Bible by myself every morning before breakfast. She says that will show me what Galahad looked for more than any light out of doors. I don't know what she means. But she says the Bible leads people to Jesus."

Irene said no more, but presently took her little friend to the nursery, and Gypsy was enchanted by the bonnie boy that sat on his nurse's knee, and crowed and laughed with delight when he saw his sister.

"I should love him ever so!" she said afterwards when they were again alone.

"So I do. I like him better than I did. But he makes me naughty. The other day he put out both his hands and pulled my hair dreadfully. I screamed, he hurt so, and I slapped his cheeks to make him leave go, and then he screamed, and nurse hit me, and Miss Carr sent me to bed for the rest of the day. And when mother kisses and loves him, it makes me feel as if I'm more and more a mistake. I know I am. I'm no good at all. I don't know what will happen to me when I grow up, for no one wants me!"

Irene was in one of her dismal moods, but Gypsy soon dispelled it, and they parted firmer friends than ever.

Gypsy spent another pleasant day away from home, and this was at Sir Perceval's. He sent a formal invitation to her to come to lunch one half-holiday, and with a radiant face she was taken there by Miss Gubbins. Next to Miss Helen "Sir Perceval" held a warm place in the little maiden's heart.

The boys were on their best behaviour; the meal was a sumptuous one; and after it was over, Sir Perceval turned the boys out into an empty barn to have half an hour's romp.

"You must have some exit for your spirits, which have been bottled up so successfully for nearly an hour, and my room has not the capabilities you require. No, I am not going to let the little elf go with you. She looks as if the wind is waiting to blow her away from us, and I want to talk to her and show her some of Bob Bogus' pictures."

So, quite content, Gypsy remained with him, and her merry laugh rang out at all the comicalities she was shown. But presently Sir Perceval showed her a very different kind of picture, and Gypsy's face got soft and grave as she looked at it.

It was a sketch in black and white, of the shepherds finding their way to Bethlehem. The dark night, the bright star, and the poverty-stricken manger, all were faithfully depicted, and the Holy Child in His mother's arms was receiving their humble homage.

"Do you like it, wise eyes? You have seen many pictures like it. I am doing it for a magazine. Christmas is close at hand, you know."

Gypsy gazed and gazed, and then a brightness came into her eyes.

"They were out in the dark, like Galahad and me; they were looking for something, too, weren't they? And the star led them instead of the Holy Light."

"Yes; but they knew what they were looking for, which is more than most of us do."

There was a little bitterness in the young man's tone.

Gypsy looked up at him wonderingly.

"Are you looking for anything, Sir Perceval? Are you looking for the Holy Thing, like me?"

"I've been chasing shadows most of my life, I believe."

"Oh, but that is great fun. We do that in the schoolroom when the fire blazes, and when it is dark. You never can catch them; that's the worst of it!"

"No. One ought to have learnt that lesson by this time."

There was silence, which Gypsy broke by saying, "It's very hard and difficult to understand. Miss Helen told me the Bible was the Holy Light. But God sent the wise men a star; it says so; and it led them all right. And Galahad didn't have the Bible."

"Oh, you children!" said Sir Perceval, resting his chin in his hands, and looking steadily into Gypsy's expressive little face. "With such a jumble of facts and fictions in your busy brains, it must be hard indeed to understand."

"I'm trying to do it," said Gypsy, looking up at him earnestly. "Miss Helen told me a text about the Holy Light. She said, 'Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.' And she said that meant the Bible. Are you looking for a light, Sir Perceval?"

"I've been in the dark for many a long year, I'm beginning to find, and I've never yet been successful in my search."

Then in a lighter tone he said,—

"Never mind, little elf. You have set out on your search more earnestly than I have. Perhaps Miss Helen may be wiser than both of us. You have been unsuccessful so far and so have I. We might do worse than try her remedy. How is the Ogre?"

The subject was turned, and the boys soon came back, and then there was no more gravity amongst them.

CHAPTER XII

The Rebellion

"HI! Gypsy! Claud! Where are you?"

Donald rushed into the schoolroom one afternoon with a hot, flushed face. He had been down in the stable-yard looking after the wants of some young puppies, and now found Claud and Gypsy lying flat on their backs on the floor with smiling, expressionless countenances.

"What are you making such asses of yourselves for?" exclaimed Donald impatiently. "Do get up and listen to me."

"We're living in Topsy-turvy Land," responded Gypsy dreamily; "and I'm planning my dining-room. I should always have whitewashed floors, and a nice little wall to climb over when you go out at the door. You lie down flat, Don, and see how nice it is to pretend you can run about on the ceiling. We're living on the ceiling, Claud and I, and it's much nicer to be that way up than the way we are."

This novel and interesting occupation was brought to an end by a few sturdy kicks, and Claud and Gypsy scrambled up at last, and stood awaiting the communication from their brother.

"Look here, I'm not going to stand it!"

"Stand what?"

"The Ogre and his tricks. He's had a lock—a new key and lock—put on that old loft door where the apples are kept!"

Claud pulled a very long face.

"Why, old Barton told us there were plenty of apples there whenever we wanted to get them. He didn't mind us going there."

"No; we aren't thieves, to be treated so! And look here, the Ogre has given orders for four of the puppies to be drowned, and only the black and white one left!"

"He's a murderer!" exclaimed Claud.

"And more than this, the Ogre has told the new groom that we're not to be allowed inside the stables! He actually had the cheek to tell me I wasn't to look at Viper; said he'd be sent away if he didn't mind master's orders. Now just tell me if we're to stand this kind of thing!"

"Gypsy looks like a stuck pig!" said Claud.

Gypsy took her little finger out of her mouth, and spoke:

"The Ogre isn't nasty always."

"He's a bloodthirsty tyrant, he's a slave-driver, he's a monster, a brute, a beast, and we've got to mutiny, that's what we have to do!"

Donald began his sentence in fierce shrieks; he finished it in a solemn whisper.

"What's a mutiny?" inquired Gypsy uneasily. "I thought it was something belonging to the sea?"

"So it is," struck in Claud boldly; "but it belongs to the soldiers too. It's a—a—scrimmage, when the soldiers and sailors get the best of the captain. And we're neither."

"Well, we'll call it a rebellion," said Donald undaunted. "We've got to rebel and rout him out of his castle. We shall have to get him into one of the wine cellars—Smythe says they used to be dungeons,—and we'll keep him there till he surrenders, and then we'll make proper terms with him!"

This sounded very grand. Claud's eyes sparkled, but Gypsy stood her ground.

"How many does it take to make a rebellion?" she asked.

The boys looked at her, and something in her sturdy demeanour puzzled them.

"It takes three in this house," said Donald sternly; "there are no traitors allowed!"

"Then I'm afraid you'll have to get Gubby," said Gypsy, walking to the door. "I like the Ogre, and I'm on his side."

This was too much for the boys; they made a rush at her, and helter-skelter down the stairs they tore. Gypsy was fleet of foot, and she fled as if for her life through the big hall, out into the avenue, and down to the lodge gates without a hat or wrap, though dusk was already setting in, and the evening was cold and damp. The gates were wide open; on she fled, but her breath was getting shorter, and her steps were faltering. When she paused at last, and looked round, no boys were to be seen.

"There now, and I've been running away from nobody!" she exclaimed, in tones of relief. "I did think I should be caught. And I expect if I don't become a rebel, the boys won't play with me. It's dreadful difficult to know what to do. I shall have to go back and be a rebel after all, I think."

She was leaning against a wall as she spoke, trying to get back her breath, but she suddenly became aware that Victor was walking towards her, talking earnestly with a lady, who proved on close approach to be Miss Helen.

Gypsy was conscious at once that she had no business to be upon the high road bare-headed. She slipped behind a tree as they passed, and she heard Victor say:

"Darling, don't look for difficulties; there are none. I appreciate Miss Gubbins' value too much to dispense with her services, but I know she would be delighted to hand over the housekeeping and go back to her schoolroom, where she could give more time and attention to Gypsy and the boys. As it is, even since the young imps have been packed off to a tutor's, they always seem all over the place, in every piece of mischief that their busy brains can concoct. I never did understand children, and I never shall; I have no patience with them."

Miss Helen said something that Gypsy could not catch. She watched them go towards the lodge gate, and then, giving them time to get back to the house, she followed slowly in their steps.

But when she crept up to the iron gate a little time afterwards, she found Victor shouting furiously, and Miss Helen, half puzzled, half amused, standing by his side offering some advice. The iron gates were shut and locked, and Victor could not gain an entrance. A page of an old copy-book was pinned to one of the iron bars, and in straggling, uneven letters the following words were written on it—

"No surrender to the enemy!"

Victor was shouting to Mrs. Finch, the old woman at the lodge, but he did not seem able to make her hear; and Gypsy, in the excitement of the moment, presented herself at once before her brother.

"They've locked you out; and I'm on your side—I shall have to be now."

Victor turned upon her sharply.

"What are you doing on the high road by yourself? Where are your brothers?"

"They'll be shutting and locking all the doors in the house, I expect," said Gypsy cheerfully, feeling rather thankful that she was with the "enemy," now she heard his tone. "You see, it's a rebellion. They've only just begun it, but we shan't be able to get in, and where shall we sleep?"

Miss Helen began to laugh, but Victor evidently was seriously vexed. Again he called to Mrs. Finch, and this time she responded from her bedroom window, which she was opening with great difficulty.

"Ay, sir, I be mortal sorry and ashamed! I've been a-tryin' to open this 'ere window, but it do stick terrible. Those plaguey boys have a-locked of me in while I were a-tidyin' of myself up a bit, and there be nobody in but the cat, and they've run off with the gate keys, and I can't stir hand nor foot!"

Victor looked at Miss Helen with a comical look of dismay.

"It is a mile round to the other gate; can you walk it? These are the 'dear little manly fellows' you admire so!"

Miss Helen smiled.

"It is the originality I admire, and, well—perhaps the audacity. But I am afraid I must not stay; I really must not. I told you I could only just give you half an hour, for I am to meet my sister at the vicarage at five, and it is nearly that now. Look at this poor child shivering with cold. What are you going to do with her? Here, Gypsy, put my fur round your neck; that will warm you."

"I will walk back to the vicarage with you," said Victor quickly.

"No, indeed you must not. You would not leave this poor mite alone? She will have to trudge that mile all by herself."

"She ought not to be here at all," said Victor sternly.

Gypsy felt aggrieved, and in her open way said so.

"It's because I wouldn't be a rebel. I didn't want to have to starve you in a dungeon; that's where you're going to be put. And now—I'm a traitor for telling you; I know the boys will say so. I don't know which is worst, a rebel or a traitor."

Miss Helen stooped to kiss her.

"You carry your games too far, Gypsy. Tell the boys from me that they don't deserve such a brother as they have. Now, Victor, I will see you to-morrow."

There was a soft pink colour in Miss Helen's cheeks as she turned to the young man, who looked first at his little sister, and then at her, with perplexity and vexation.

For an instant he wavered, then he said with a sigh,—

"You have reminded me of my duty, and I will not neglect it. Of course you will see me to-morrow, and we will postpone the introduction to a more propitious time. I trust I shall not be over harsh with these scamps when I catch them. Come along, Gypsy, we will go round to the back avenue."

There were a few words aside between Victor and Miss Helen, and then he took his little sister by the hand, and set off with great swinging strides, and a frown upon his brow.

Gypsy trotted on, and presently tried to comfort him.

"I 'spect we shall get in at one door, shan't we? There are such a lot of doors and windows, but they may point a gun at us!"

"Pointing a gun" was Gypsy's secret terror. She had experienced it more than once from the boys, who would take down one of the old muskets in the hall when they got a chance. Miss Gubbins' awful stories of boys who shot a little sister dead by mistake when pretending to do so, did not impress the culprits half as much as it did their victim.

"And you know," continued the child, "you've only to give in to their terms, and they will let you in. Don said so. He shut me up in a cupboard the other day till I would do what 'Agony' wanted me to. And when I said 'Yes,' he let me out."

"Who is Agony?" asked Victor absently.

"She's a kind of secret person that can't be seen. Don said she came to tea with us last night. We had to sit very still, and talk in whispers. Gubby didn't know she was there, and talked just the same, but we didn't, for of course we knew her. Don says what grown-up people do and say doesn't matter to her, she only knows children."

Victor asked more about this "secret person." He always found his little sister extremely entertaining when he had her alone, and Gypsy was fast taking him into her confidence.

When they reached the other gate they found it open, but when they approached the house they discovered that every door was carefully barred. The boys had worked hard, and, from their point of view, successfully.

Miss Gubbins had been locked in her bedroom, and did not know it, for she was reading poetry. The servants were all gathered in the servants' hall at their tea, and the key had been noiselessly turned upon them, so noiselessly, that they were now gossiping away, in utter ignorance of their position. Smythe was locked in his pantry, and he alone was struggling to free himself, but being some distance from the servants' hall, his efforts were unheard.

Victor strode up to the front entrance door, and seized hold of the massive knocker with no gentle hand. Gypsy looked up at the house with awe.

"The rebellion is begun," she said, "and it's only you and me against them."

For a few minutes there was dead silence, then tumult from the servants' hall, and then a window was opened from above, and a white handkerchief tied to a walking-stick was flourished wildly in the air.

"This is a truce," piped Claud's small treble voice. "Are you willing to make terms?"

"You can't get in anywhere,"' shouted Donald excitedly. "We have taken captive all your servants, even old Barton, and the new groom and Ned are locked up in the harness-room, and we've taken the castle from you, and we're masters, and we've got the keys. You'll be starved to death and frozen with cold, but it will be no good. We shall never let you in! Three cheers for the rebels! Hip! hip! hooray!"

"Hip! hip! hooray!" echoed Claud, but his voice was shaky, and he looked a little scared.

The Ogre had got the best of it once with him and he could not forget it.

Then Victor spoke, and he appeared perfectly indifferent to these audacious speeches, for his voice was quiet and even.

"Now look here, boys. I dare say you're enjoying your game, but it must come to an end. I give you five minutes to think it over. If you choose to come down and unlock this door at the end of that time, and apologise for your behaviour, I will say no more about it. If you still refuse, you have only severe punishment in store for you. Take your choice. I shall say no more."

Victor then sat down very coolly on the low stone balustrade, and taking Gypsy on his knee drew out his watch. This high-handed proceeding rather disconcerted the "rebels." They drew in their heads and consulted together in low whispers.

"What do you think he'll do?"

"Do? Why, nothing much. Lock us in, I s'pose. That isn't wrong, of course; it's only wrong when we lock him out." And Donald gave a sniff of contempt. Then, leaning out of the window, after a little further talk, he shouted defiantly,—

"It isn't the proper thing for you to make terms. It's us who do that, and we're not going to let you in till you promise us three things. Would you like to hear them? Call them out, Claud!"

Claud thrust his fair head out immediately.

"You must promise us first that we shall not be locked out of the stables, or kept away from any place where we want to go. That's number one. You must promise us that no puppies or kittens shall ever be killed in this house again. That's number two. And you must promise us that you'll leave Sir Perceval and Gubby to look after us, and not meddle with us in the future. That's number three."

Victor made no response, only looked down at his watch, and gazed at the minute hand flying round, as if he had not heard.

Gypsy began to feel nervous.

"You won't be very angry with the boys, will you?" she whispered. "It's only a kind of game!"

There was no reply, and then putting her down, Victor stood up.

"The five minutes are up, boys!"

Another five minutes went by, and then, hearing no sound of the culprits, Victor made a quick spring on to one of the dining-room window-ledges, and in a moment had pushed the window open and was inside. The boys had not remembered to make all the window-fastenings secure.

Poor little Gypsy began to cry. She was cold and frightened, and did not like being left out alone in the dark; but in a very few minutes the door was opened, and Miss Gubbins drew her in amidst a group of very irate servants.

"Come upstairs at once, dear, to the fire."

And it was not till Gypsy was seated comfortably before the schoolroom fire that she ventured to ask:

"Where are the boys, and—and the Ogre?"

"In the library together," said Miss Gubbins, a little nervously. Then she added, "I'm afraid you are all much naughtier than you used to be. I never had any real trouble with you. They have never had a hand laid upon them, and I—I fear for the consequences!"

"What is a hand laid on them?—a whipping?"

"Yes."

Gypsy's eyes grew big as she gazed into the fire.

It was very quiet in the house now, but presently steps were heard along the passage, and the boys' bedroom door opened and shut.

"Gubby, may I go and see?"

"No, dear; stay with me."

And then the door opened, and Victor entered.

He came up and stood with his back to the fire, warming his coat-tails, and looked across at Miss Gubbins with a little shrug of his shoulders.

"It's over," he said, a queer smile coming to his lips. "Your pet lambs have been in the hands of the tyrant, Miss Gubbins, but I think it will be for the first and last time. I assuredly hope so. Boys require a man to deal with them occasionally, and they have found their master!"

"What did you do to them?" gasped Gypsy, looking at him in horror.

"I gave them a sharp caning, and I think they deserved it. But," he added, again smiling, "we shook hands after it, and forgave each other. And I don't think my stick will be required again."

Gypsy drew close to Miss Gubbins, and said no more. Her little heart was sorely troubled on account of her brothers. She was not allowed to see them again that evening, and when they came to breakfast the next morning, they so loftily ignored all the events of the preceding day, that she was afraid to show any pity.

Strangely enough, from that time a better understanding existed between Victor and his little brothers. The boys had learnt to respect him at last, and the manner in which he had dealt such summary punishment to them, without losing his temper, could not but impress them favourably.

The Ogre was never locked out of his house again. And when they heard that Miss Helen was one day coming to live with them, they shouted out with real fervour:

"Three cheers for the Ogre and his wife!"

CHAPTER XIII

The "Holy Thing"

IT was Sunday afternoon, and only a few days before Christmas. Gypsy was lying on the hearthrug, looking at Miss Gubbins' old picture Bible.

The boys, after a long whispered consultation in a corner of the room, had disappeared, and Gypsy, with her thoughts full of the "Star of Bethlehem," was thinking busily as she slowly turned the pages, and looked at the pictures of the shepherds and the wise men. Suddenly she started, and spelled out breathlessly the following words:—

"That Holy Thing which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God."

Then she stood on her feet with flushed cheeks.

"There, I knew it! I knew it! And here the Bible says so. The boys said the Holy Thing wasn't a text, and it is, and it does mean Jesus Christ Himself!"

At this moment the door opened, and in burst the boys. Donald had got two pillows strapped across his back, an old felt hat of Victor's slouched over his eyes, and a stout stick in his hand. Claud was ambling after him covered with a bearskin, and when Gypsy saw them she looked quite shocked.

"You're dressing up, and it's Sunday!"

"It's all right," Donald assured her, marching round the table with a great deal of noise. "It's a proper Sunday game, and it's out of the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' Claud is going to be one of the chained lions, and I want you to be the other. I'll tie you up with just room for me to walk between you, and you must try to grab me, and you won't be able to!"

Gypsy did not look as if she found this very enticing. She was too full of her own theme to have much interest in the boys.

"Listen!" she cried. "You told me long ago the Holy Thing wasn't a text. And it is. I have just found it in the Bible!"

The boys paused.

"We don't believe it!"

Gypsy read out her verse in triumph, and the boys listened, and had not a word to say. Gypsy went on:—

"I believe Galahad was like the wise men, and he was looking for Jesus, and the Holy Light was the star!"

"Oh, all right!" said Donald, a little impatiently. "I'm 'Christian' now, and he's a kind of Sunday Galahad. Come on and be the lion Gypsy! The Ogre isn't here to catch us, and Gubby is lying down, as she always is on Sunday."

"If we're lions, we're sure to wake her up," objected Gypsy.

"Well, look here, we'll come into the Ogre's library, that's away from everybody."

They left the schoolroom; and then ensued such a romp, and such howls and shrieks, that at last two maids and Smythe appeared and dragged the hot combatants apart.

"Ain't you ashamed of yourselves?" said Smythe severely, as he collared Donald and gave him a little shake. "Is this keepin' Sunday? And there's a lady downstairs a-waitin' to see Miss Gypsy, and she lookin' as if she's just come out of a pigsty!"

"I have followed you up," said a pleasant voice, and Miss Helen came in at the door.

There was an instant hush. The boys looked ashamed of themselves, and Gypsy began to cry.

"It's a proper Sunday game," said Donald, a little sulkily.

"It isn't," sobbed Gypsy. "I've torn my best frock, and the string you tied me up with hurt awful!"

Miss Helen drew her towards her, and soothed her ruffled feelings.

"I have just run in to wish you a happy Christmas, and to leave you a parcel, for I am going away to-morrow, and it will be my last chance of seeing you. Won't you put yourselves tidy, boys, and come to us in the schoolroom? Gypsy and I are going there now."

A little later the three children were seated quietly talking to their visitor. Miss Helen certainly had a wonderful charm for all children, and finding them in want of occupation, she settled down to interest and keep them quiet for a short time.

"Tell you a story," she said, answering the usual clamour; "what about, I wonder?"

"Oh, some adventures to travellers, that's what we like."

"Miss Helen," interrupted Gypsy, "I've found the Holy Thing in the Bible, and it means Jesus—it says the 'Son of God,' and He was the Son of God, wasn't He?"

Miss Helen looked at the verse the eager little maiden was pointing at, and then she said, after a silence:

"It's the same old story, children, only differently told. Galahad and others went to seek for the Holy Grail; Christian left his home and friends and travelled, seeking the Beautiful City; the wise men and shepherds sought the Saviour. We should travel through life, not seeking treasures on earth, but treasures in heaven. And if we find what the wise men did, we shall find everything. You are all little pilgrims. You have got enemies to fight every day, but you will never really advance towards heaven until you have found Jesus to be your own Saviour and best Friend. Have you done this?

"You will have plenty of adventures on your journey, many temptations, and troubles, and slips by the way; but if Jesus is with you He will take care of you, and take your hands in His. The Holy Grail that you are all so fond of, is a parable. It shows us that though Arthur's knights had plenty of honour and glory, though they were in the midst of earthly pomp and show, and could have been satisfied with their brave deeds, and all their surroundings, yet the best of them sought higher things. They looked for heavenly light and glory, and Galahad found what he sought, and was called into the King's presence. Live for heaven, boys, and you'll be following Galahad's footsteps.

"Be knights for Jesus Christ. That is a much more glorious thing than being King Arthur's knights. And a much more real thing, for boys and girls are wanted to fight the Lord's battles, to be always standing out as champions of the right, and putting down the evil."

Miss Helen paused. She had spoken with great fervour, and the boys were much impressed.

"I will belong to Jesus," said Gypsy, fervently looking up at Miss Helen with glowing eyes, "only I don't know how to start. And I don't understand the text, 'Those that seek Me shall find Me.' Can't I never, never really see Jesus? Is looking for the Holy Thing no good at all?"

"This is Christmas time, so we will think of the Christmas story," said Miss Helen. "Why did the wise men want to find Jesus? Wasn't it to own Him as their King, and present to Him gifts? Didn't the shepherds praise and thank God for letting them see their Saviour? If you children want to find Jesus, kneel down like the wise men before Him. He is with us always. Give Him the best gift you have—your little hearts, and thank Him for coming down to be your Saviour. Then live for Him, and let Him lead you on the road to heaven."

A hush had fallen on the little group; then Donald said, with much emphasis:

"I'll make myself a knight for Jesus Christ on Christmas Day."

"Ask Him to make you one, Donald. No one can make themselves into knights. They must be knighted by the king or queen."

They had a little more talk, and then Miss Helen went away, leaving behind her a parcel which was not to be opened till Christmas Day.

Miss Gubbins wondered at the quiet that reigned in the schoolroom, when she came in shortly afterwards; but though she was told of the visitor, she was not told of the substance of her talk; and she did not know that on that Sunday afternoon, whilst she was asleep, some seed had been dropped into good ground, that would eventually spring up and bear fruit a hundredfold.

Christmas was a delightful time to the children. Victor was going to be away himself, but he asked Miss Gubbins to make it as bright as possible to every one. The boys helped the old gardener to cut down evergreen, and bring it in to decorate the house; and now that the sense of their brother's absence took away all restraint from their actions, the place echoed and re-echoed with their glee. Christmas Eve came, and in the afternoon, tired out with play, the boys threw themselves down by the great log fire in the hall. Gypsy joined them; and presently she said:

"Poor Sir Perceval, he'll be spending his Christmas all alone! I wish we had some nice presents to send him!"

"Yes," assented Claud; "he ought to have something. Let's make him up a parcel, like Gubby is doing for the old villagers, and we'll take it to him before tea."

"What shall we put in?" asked Donald considering: then starting to his feet he said, "Come on, well make a collection, it will be great fun."

They borrowed a covered basket from Smythe, abstracted a wine bottle from the pantry, coaxed a cake out of cook, and then made their way to the store cupboard, where Miss Gubbins was doing up her parcels.

She, thinking they were wanting to have a little feast, gave them some candied peel, almonds, and raisins, and a few oranges. These were stuffed loosely into the basket, and they were followed by a velvet smoking-cap with a red silk tassel found in Victor's bedroom, a new Christmas number of the "Graphic," and lastly a puppy was produced from the stable and put in on the top. Then each taking a handle of the basket the boys sallied out, and Gypsy followed as closely as she could, dragging after her a large branch of holly, a special offering from herself.

PRESENTS FOR SIR PERCEVAL.

It was a dull, cold afternoon, and the walk seemed a long one to the little girl; but they reached their destination, and found Sir Perceval enjoying himself with his books over his fire.

How he laughed, when he was made to undo his basket; but he shook his head gravely over the bottle of wine and smoking-cap.

"Those belong to the Ogre," he said, as after a little cross-questioning, he discovered from whence they had been taken. "I shall enjoy my cake. You must give my best thanks to Mrs. Cook, and if the puppy is really Donald's possession and he likes to give it to me, I shall be deeply grateful. But the rest you must take back."

"We want you to have a jolly Christmas," said Claud, "and we're afraid you're rather dull all alone."

"Bob Bogus is always jolly, and he is not going to be alone either, this Christmas."

"Who is coming?"

"I didn't say any one was coming, did I?"

"Oh, you're only chaffing. You mean the little spirits that you say whisper funny ideas in your head!"

Sir Perceval looked at Claud with a laugh, but a shade of gravity passed over his face as he turned his eyes towards Gypsy.

"Look here, youngsters," he said, "go out and ask Mrs. What's-her-name to give you some milk for the puppy, and leave the little elf with me."

The boys obeyed at once. They knew all the ins and outs of the farmhouse, and were great favourites with the farmer and his wife. Gypsy drew near, and perched herself on Sir Perceval's knee.

"I wish you could come and spend the day with us to-morrow," she said.

"My old legs won't let me, unfortunately. Well, how are you getting on in your quest? Have you got any fresh light on the subject?"

"Do you mean the Holy Thing? Yes, I found a text about it in the Bible, but Miss Helen told us a lot about it on Sunday afternoon. I didn't quite understand, but I expect you would, if you had been there."

"Well, do you know I think I do understand. I have been trying to use the Holy Light that you advised, and where do you think it has led me?"

"What Holy Light? Oh, I remember; it was the Bible, wasn't it? Where did it lead you?"

"Just exactly where the star led the wise men."

Gypsy considered; then said thoughtfully, "It led them straight to Jesus."

Sir Perceval nodded at her gravely without a word.

"Then you have found Jesus."

Another grave nod.

"Did you really—" this in an eager whisper—"did you really see Him?"

Sir Perceval smiled.

"Have you ever seen things with your eyes shut, Gypsy?"

"Sometimes. We play at a game like that. The boys shut their eyes tight, and tell me what they see, and then I tell them what I see."

"Well, there are some things we can see with our hearts instead of our eyes. I think your muddle was this. You were trying to find with your eyes, what your heart was meant to find. And all my life I've been doing the same."

Gypsy looked eager.

"Tell me more. How can my heart find Jesus?"

"Do you know what text the Holy Light led me to? Listen—'Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with Me.' My heart has been empty for many a long year, though once I used to think about these things, so I opened my heart's door, and now you know who my Christmas Guest is."

Gypsy's blue eyes glowed and sparkled.

"And can my heart find Jesus like that? Will it open to Him?"

"You know best, for you are the one to open it."

There was silence. The firelight played over the child's expressive face in all its innocence and beauty, and on the strong manly one bent over her.

Then Gypsy said brokenly:

"Let me tell Jesus now, let me open the door to Him here."

She slid down on her knees, without waiting for any assent, and this was Gypsy's prayer:

"I've been trying to find You, Lord Jesus, but my heart is going to find You now. Please come in, and keep there. I'm glad I know the way to find You at last. Amen."

Then there was a short silence, but it was broken by the boys' noisy entrance, and all quietness was at an end.

Gypsy put up her face to be kissed when she wished Sir Perceval good-bye.

"I shan't ever want to find the Holy Thing any more," she whispered, "for I know now that it just means Jesus."

THE END.

Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.

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Table of Contents

LEGEND-LED

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

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