Chapter IV: Part 4

"My mistress is rather put about to think Miss Monica should be so late coming back; would you please to walk in and explain, miss?" suggested the maid to Elsa, who seemed to be spokeswoman.

"Oh, yes, of course, we will tell all we know," said Elsa, and she and Amethyst silently followed the maid to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Beauchamp was sitting by one of the open French windows, which overlooked part of the prettily laid-out gardens.

"Well, my dear, how are you?" she said, as Elsa approached, and held out a timid hand; "and is this your little friend?" And the old lady looked approvingly at the pretty, childish face and simple attire of the vicar's little daughter. "But how is it you have arrived alone? Where are Monica and your sister?"

"Oh, Mrs. Beauchamp, we can't think what they are doing!" And Elsa told the whole story of what had occurred that afternoon, at least, as far as the present state of affairs was concerned; finishing up by saying, "We wouldn't have been so long, indeed we wouldn't, if we had known how late it was. I am almost sorry, now, that we went all the way with the old woman, but we thought it was right at the time." And Elsa's eyes filled with tears.

"You did quite right, children, no one could blame you," said Mrs. Beauchamp, more kindly than Monica ever heard her speak. "I am only sorry that my granddaughter did not wish to act as you did." And the old lady sighed as she thought of the difference between self-pleasing, self-willed Monica, and this nice-speaking, unselfish girl; and the advantage was all on Elsa's side. "The thing to be considered is, where are they now?"

"Do you think they might still be waiting for us?" queried Amethyst, who had been a silent spectator so far. "Shall we go back and see?"

Mrs. Beauchamp smiled. "I think we can manage better than that," she said. "I will send a messenger to the gate in West Lane, in case they should be there, and we will have some tea, for I am sure you must be thirsty after hurrying so, on this hot day. I quite expect that before very long they will come rushing in."

The two girls were very glad to wash their hands and smooth their dishevelled hair; and Amethyst was delighted to see Monica's room (where Barnes had taken them) for the first time.

Then they went into the dining-room, where a sumptuous repast had been spread for the quartette, Mrs. Beauchamp knowing something, from experience, of young people's appetites. If it had not been for the suspense about the other girls, Elsa and Amethyst would have enjoyed themselves immensely.

Mrs. Beauchamp was so very kind, and made herself quite agreeable to these two well-behaved girls; indeed Amethyst, who was light-hearted by nature, almost forgot the unfortunate ending to their picnic, but Elsa was unable to banish the thought from her mind that something must have happened to them to cause such delay, and she could see that Mrs. Beauchamp was very much worried, although she strove to entertain her little guests cheerfully.

"You are not making much of a tea, my dear. Try one of these," and Mrs. Beauchamp held a plate of delicious looking macaroons toward Elsa.

"No, thank you, I don't feel as if I could eat another mouthful." And Elsa's tears, which had been very near the surface for some time, rained down her cheeks, while a sob choked her voice.

"Don't fret, my dear," said Mrs. Beauchamp, soothingly, albeit her own voice shook.

"I am so afraid something has happened," sobbed Elsa, and she hid her face in her hands.

"Let us hope not; they may have been hindered in some way," replied Mrs. Beauchamp; but even as she spoke, a maid entered the room with an expression of alarm on her face.

"If you please, ma'am----" she began.

"What is it, Harriet? Tell me at once?" And Mrs. Beauchamp clutched the back of her chair for support, while her face assumed an ashen hue, and poor Elsa felt inclined to scream.

"A man's come from Osmington, from Mr. Howell's place, ma'am, to say as there's been an accident, ma'am, and Miss Monica's leg is hurt. It were something to do with one of these motors, ma'am, but he says he was told to say it weren't by no means serious."

A tinge of colour came into Mrs. Beauchamp's cheeks, as the servant reached the end of her sentence; she had dreaded she knew not what.

"Is the man here, Harriet? Have him taken to the morning-room, and I will see him," she faltered.

"Oh! please may we hear too?" asked Elsa, with quivering lips.

And the old lady, reading the alarm in the girl's tense young face, said: "Of course, my dear."

By dint of much questioning they got some idea of what had occurred; and, relieved to a certain extent by having definite news of her grandchild, Mrs. Beauchamp made speedy arrangements for her conveyance home.

In a very few minutes the brougham was at the door, and into it stepped Mrs. Beauchamp and the two girls, followed by the reliable Barnes, who was always to be depended upon in an emergency.

Elsa and Amethyst would dearly have liked to go as far as the Howells', so as to know exactly how Monica was, but when Mrs. Beauchamp ordered the coachman to put them down at Dr. Franklyn's, on his way through the town, they did not dare to make the suggestion.

*CHAPTER X.*

*"I LIKE FUSSIN' OVER PEOPLE!"*

With a sigh of relief Monica heard the front door shut, and saw the retreating figures of the doctor and Olive passing down the drive, from her post of vantage in the great bay window. She wanted to think; at least, she was not sure that she _wanted_ to, but ideas suggested themselves to her brain and insisted upon being thought out.

How _could_ she, who never before had been actually laid up with any ailment, endure the thought of being for three weeks, at least, chained like a log to a sofa? And, just as likely as not, it would end in being a month, or even more. Oh, it was unendurable! No school--no fun--no daily meeting with all the girls, and Olive, of course, in particular: and Monica realised how wonderfully attached she had become to school-life and doings, even in seven short weeks. No pleasant German lessons with kind little Fraeulein Wespe, which she so much enjoyed. Nothing but day after day in one or other of the dull, lonely rooms at Carson Rise, waited on by Barnes, and visited periodically by her grandmother, who she was sure, from experience, would gladly seize every available opportunity of improving the occasion by telling her she had only herself to thank for the position in which she found herself!

How heartily Monica wished now that she had never seen the wretched bicycle, as she styled it, much less have been persuaded into attempting to ride it. In her vexation she blamed the bicycle, its owner, Elsa and Amethyst for being late, and even poor, unfortunate old Granny Wood, for being the primary cause of the mishap. It is a wonder that she did not go one step farther, and credit Hero with originating the whole chapter of accidents, for it certainly was his bark that started the ball rolling. If Monica had heard any one else _saying_ what she was _thinking_, she would have been exceedingly amused, for it sounded like a modern version of the "House that Jack built." But she saw no fun in anything just then, all was disappointment, discomfort, and pain; and yet in her heart of hearts, Monica knew that it all arose from disobedience.

Not for worlds would she have owned it even to herself, but as she lay on that couch, looking out into the sunlit garden and thinking, her better nature craved after a nobler, higher life, where disobedience and its results would have no place. She thought of her father and his words to her in that almost forgotten letter, and unwonted tears rose to her eyes, as she realised that instead of becoming what he wanted her to be, she seemed lately to have grown less and less like the ideal she had even set up for herself in those days.

Monica's ruminations were brought to an abrupt termination at this moment by the door opening, and a pleasant rattle of teacups sounded on her ears as the footman appeared with the tea equipage. Mrs. Howell followed him in, and busied herself in pouring out a cup of the fragrant beverage, and placing it on a little table at Monica's elbow, saying in her uncultured but kindly tones: "There's nothin' so comfortin' as a cup of tea, to my mind; have a good drink, do 'ee now, my----"

The good soul paused, in confusion, at the words which had so nearly slipped out. What would this haughty young maiden have said if she had called her "my dear?" So she made a nervous little cough, and added, in an apologetic voice, "Miss Beauchamp."

"Thanks, you're very kind," replied Monica, in her off-hand way. "I'm sure I'm awfully sorry to give you such a lot of trouble."

"It's no trouble at all, my dear," said her hostess warmly, quite forgetting to watch her words this time; but Monica did not appear to mind the appellation, it seemed natural to be called "my dear" by a person of Mrs. Howell's description. "I like fussin' over people." And the good woman looked a wee bit wistful, for Lily hated above all things to be "fussed over by ma."

"I don't think I should care about it always," said Monica candidly, with a little laugh; "but just now it feels rather nice to be waited on," and she smiled up into the homely face, surmounted by the magnificent, but too lavishly trimmed cap, which was bending over her.

Mrs. Howell's heart went out to this girl, who seemed so different from what Lily had declared her to be; and Monica, realising the motherliness which underlay all the oddities and vulgarities, felt strangely drawn towards her commonplace hostess. They were becoming quite at home with each other, when carriage wheels were heard, and "Mrs. Beauchamp" was announced.

A hasty glance at the visitor's aristocratic appearance, and the sound of her well-modulated voice, made poor Mrs. Howell realise her many deficiencies once again, and she relapsed into monosyllabic replies to Mrs. Beauchamp's many enquiries. So Monica had perforce to be chief spokeswoman.

"Well, I am glad that it is no worse than it is," said her grandmother stiffly. "The anxiety your non-appearance caused me was intense; and all this trouble and inconvenience to everybody would have been avoided, if you had not disobeyed my commands." And she shook her head severely at the culprit, who showed no sign of contrition for her misdeeds. "Well, you will have plenty of time to reflect, so we will say no more now," added the old lady, "but with Mrs. Howell's permission Barnes shall help you out to the carriage, and we will not trespass further on her kindness."

"Oh, I can hobble out by myself, somehow," said Monica, and she tried to get up off the couch, but fell back among the cushions with a stifled groan.

"Let me help you, my dear," whispered Mrs. Howell, so low that no one but Monica heard her, and with a supreme effort the girl managed just to stand, by holding tight to the velvet-covered arm which was offered for her to lean on. But to walk was absolutely impossible, the mere movement of the injured ankle (the pain had been tolerably easy while it had been laid up) was so excruciating, that even strong-willed Monica could not summon up courage to put it to the ground.

"I'm afraid I can't walk," she was obliged to confess, with white, quivering lips, just as Mr. Howell appeared upon the scene.

"How now, young lady?" he said, in his bluff way; "not trying to walk, surely? You don't look any too fit."

"Couldn't me an' you help her out to the carriage, Bob?" his wife said, in a somewhat loud aside. "Her grandma wants to be off."

"If the young lady will allow me, I think the best plan will be for me to pick her up and carry her out," he said, with a grandiloquent bow.

"Really, I cannot----" began Mrs. Beauchamp, in horrified tones.

And Monica said: "Oh! no, please."

But without more ado, the big burly man lifted her gently in his strong arms, saying, with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes: "It won't be the first time to-day, missy," and before Mrs. Beauchamp had had time to summon Barnes, Monica was comfortably settled in the brougham, with her injured ankle resting on a board, and some cushions, which Barnes' forethought had provided.

"Thank you ever so much, Mr. Howell," said Monica gratefully, "and Mrs. Howell too."

"Tut, tut, missy! T'was a pleasure to her to have some one to coddle."

"I should like to come and see her some day, when my ankle is well again, if I may."

"She'd be very glad if you would," was Mr. Howell's reply, as he handed Mrs. Beauchamp into the carriage, and shut the door after Barnes had squeezed herself into the tiny bit of space that was left.

"I am sure we are very much indebted to you for all your kindness," said Mrs. Beauchamp, in her freezingly polite way, as he stood, hat in hand, waiting to see the carriage off.

"Pray don't mention it, madam," was all he said, as he bowed in response to her formal "good evening"; the smile that overspread his rugged, good-tempered face was for the girl who nodded a bright farewell, albeit her face was white and drawn with pain.

"A noble lass, that," was Mr. Howell's comment, as he sauntered round the beautifully laid-out garden with his worthy spouse; "but a vixen of a grandmother, to judge from looks."

Mrs. Howell, who had not been very prepossessed herself, felt it her duty to remonstrate with him for judging hastily.

"The gentry always has such airs," she said; "I daresay the old lady means well enough. But I must say I did take to the girl."

"And she to you, apparently." And her husband repeated what Monica had said about coming again.

"Bless her!" ejaculated warm-hearted Mrs. Howell; and then she added wistfully, "I wish, Bob----"

"What, old girl?"

"That our Lily was a bit more like her."

"Tut, tut!" he said. "This Miss Beauchamp is a lady, born and bred; and our girl ain't got a drop of blue blood in her veins."

"Our Lily don't seem to have got no heart, somehow," sighed her mother. "She's all for clothes, an' pleasure, an' pleasin' herself."

"It's the brass that's to blame for that," said the man who had amassed a fortune of over a quarter of a million. "I'm almost sorry I had such a streak of luck. We were happier in the old days, Caroline, when we lived in the little house at Bermondsey, and went out marketing together Saturday nights, guess the old proverb that 'money's the root of all evil' is about right. It's all very well, but it don't buy happiness."

"That ain't a proverb, Bob," said his wife, reprovingly, "it's in the Bible, and it says it's the love of money that makes all the mischief. I sometimes think, Bob," she added, a trifle hesitatingly, for she was treading on tender ground, "that if we were a bit religious, we should be happier like."

"Time enough for religion when you get notice to quit," he replied with a hard laugh, which had no mirth in it. "'Do as you would be done by' is a good enough creed for me; and if everybody acted up to it the world would be a better place than it is, with all its parsons and church-going."

"That ain't enough to take you to heaven, Bob," said Mrs. Howell, sadly, but as she knew no better way to suggest she said no more, and the subject dropped. But in the plain, homely woman's breast there was a deep, unsatisfied longing after a peace which she had never found, amid all the luxuries and splendour of her surroundings.

While the above conversation was taking place, and Monica was being driven slowly home, the story of that disastrous day was being eagerly detailed by the other three girls at the Franklyns', whither Amethyst had accompanied Elsa, and where to her great delight she found her mother sitting with Mrs. Franklyn.

Fortunately for the invalid, no rumour of the accident had reached her room, Mr. Howell's messenger having met the doctor after he had left home a few minutes; so that she and Mrs. Drury had been enjoying a little confidential chat about their children over a cup of tea; never dreaming but that they were all having a splendid time at Carson Rise, until Olive, who was followed by the other two girls before there had been time to become anxious about them, told how differently they had been placed.

Olive and Amethyst both talked together, and there was such a confused jargon going on, that for some time neither of the ladies could get a very clear idea of what had happened; but eventually Elsa was appealed to for her version of the affair, and then they understood better.

"Dear me, I am sorry for Monica," said Mrs. Drury sympathetically; "it will be a long business, I am afraid."

"Poor child!" murmured the invalid; "how will she bear it?"

"It's awfully hard lines on her," cried Olive vehemently, "shut up in that great, dull house for weeks. And I shall miss her just dreadfully."

"I'm glad it isn't me," said Amethyst; "not that I should mind being laid up if mumsie nursed me," with an affectionate press of her mother's hand, at whose feet she had thrown herself. "But you get so low in class if you are away from school long."

"There are lessons to be learnt on a sofa, my child, that are more important than all the school ones," said the invalid gently; "and by learning them properly a higher place can be gained than any that the High School can bestow."

"I don't think I understand, Mrs. Franklyn," said Amethyst, in a puzzled tone, while Elsa crept nearer to her mother, and kissed her thin, white hand, a little comprehensive smile flickering about her mouth. Olive looked on, a trifle superciliously; if it had not been for Mrs. Drury's presence, she would have said: "For goodness' sake, don't preach, mamma!"

"I mean the lessons in God's school, dearie, the difficult things we are so slow to learn. It is only when 'He teaches us of His ways' that we can 'walk in His paths.' I was thinking perhaps God had allowed this accident to happen to Monica, so that she might have time to think of these things."

"Monica is good enough as she is," cried Olive tempestuously; "we don't all want to be goody-goodies like some people I know. There would never be a bit of fun left then." And she stood up defiantly.

With a significant glance at Mrs. Franklyn, whose pale face wore a grieved, sad expression, Mrs. Drury took the matter into her own hands.

"I am sorry, Olive, that you should feel like that," she said calmly, while she looked searchingly into the defiant face of the young girl, who was picking a tea-rose to pieces with thoughtless fingers. "But it is a good thing, sometimes, to say what one feels. You must have been unfortunate in your acquaintance with Christians if you find them dull and gloomy. They are not all so, I can assure you. Indeed there is no one so light-hearted, no life so sunshiny, as that of a true follower of the Lord Jesus Christ. It is just because we are so happy with Him as our Friend, as well as Teacher, that we want all those whom we know, and love, to become learners in His school. For we remember that the Examination Day is coming, and unless we have Him as our helper, we shall certainly 'fail,' instead of 'pass.' You know yourself from school experience that there are only the two positions to be in; and it rests with each one of us to decide, now, which state shall be ours hereafter."

As Mrs. Drury ended her sentence, she lowered her voice, until it was scarcely more than a whisper, but the silence which had fallen upon the little group was so intense that every word was distinctly audible. Amethyst looked up into her mother's face, and said, with real earnestness: "I do want to pass _that_ examination, mumsie," and Mrs. Drury bent down and kissed the upturned face with clinging tenderness, for she knew that her little daughter's real desire was to please her Saviour, although she very often failed to do so.

But just at that moment her heart went out with a great longing towards that other mother's girl, who seemed so unwilling to put first things _first_. Her eyes sought Olive's, so that she might, if possible, read in them something of her thoughts, but Olive kept her head persistently turned away, and so she could not gauge what was passing in her mind.

So, with a prayer in her heart (oft repeated as time passed) that God would show Olive her need of a Saviour, she bade the invalid a tender farewell, with a whispered word of hope, and after good-byes had been exchanged, Mrs. Drury and Amethyst took their departure.

The little girl chattered volubly of all the incidents of the afternoon, as they walked home in the pleasant coolness which had succeeded the heat of that June day, but Mrs. Drury was a trifle abstracted. She was thinking of the friend she had left, who appeared to her to be losing, rather than gaining strength, of the sorrow that the indecision of some of her children, with regard to spiritual things, caused the patient invalid. For a moment, a subtle temptation presented itself: why did not a gracious Father answer His children's prayers for their loved ones more speedily. But she thrust the thought from her, knowing well that God both could, and would, do all things well, in His own good time.

"Father will be astonished when we tell him, won't he?" piped Amethyst, in her childish treble, and Mrs. Drury's eyes lost their far-away look as she smiled into the animated little face, which only reached to her shoulder.

"Yes, very," she replied, "but you won't see him to-night, dearie, for he has gone to a big meeting at Alwinton and he will not be home until quite late."

"Oh!" Amethyst's face fell somewhat; she rather liked telling her own news, and the events of that day had been quite exciting ones to her. "Well, you will have to tell him then, mumsie, I suppose. But couldn't you only say just enough, and leave the rest for me to tell at breakfast?"

And her mother promised she would.

*CHAPTER XI.*

*"A NICE ENOUGH LITTLE DOG, AS DOGS GO."*

"Is there anything else you're wanting, Miss Monica?"

And Mary Ann, who had been for the last half-hour engaged in arranging everything for the comfort and convenience of her young mistress, paused as she reached the door of the apartment, half-schoolroom, half-boudoir, which Monica called her "prison-house," and looked towards the occupant of a low couch that had been drawn up to the open window.

"Oh, yes, you might put those books where I can reach them," and Monica indicated a pile of library books which were lying on a low bookcase in a corner of the room. The maid obeyed, and placed them on a table by Monica's side, on which she kept the various things with which she vainly endeavoured to while away the tedium of the long, long days.

"Are you sure there's nothing else, miss?"

"I don't think there is, thanks." And the housemaid was just departing, when she was recalled by the sound of her name.

"Oh, Mary Ann!"

"Yes, miss?"

"Which is your evening out?"

"Fridays, Miss Monica," said the girl, astonishment expressed in both face and voice. Whatever could be coming to their young lady? Never before had she taken the slightest interest in the outings of her grandmother's domestics!

"Let me see, to-day is Friday," mused Monica, "could you do an errand for me while you are out this evening, Mary Ann?"

"Well, miss, it all depends," replied the under-housemaid, cautiously. "Where would it be, miss?"

"Oh, it's only to take back these books and get me some fresh ones from Bell's Library," said Monica. "Are you fond of reading, Mary Ann?"

"La, yes, miss," admitted the girl with a giggle. "Cook says I get right down wropt up in my book, and they have to shake me sometimes, when I'm sittin' readin' in the kitchen of a evening, for I never 'ears no one a-speakin' when I'm deep in my story."

"Well, I daresay I could lend you a book, now and again," said Monica graciously. "And you think you could go to Bell's this evening?"

"Why, yes, Miss Monica, I'll go with pleasure," said the girl, delighted at the prospect of the loan of some books. "Me and Jim (that's my young man, miss," she explained with a simper and a blush) "we generally strolls down High Street, and I can easy pop in and get 'em."

"Well, here is a list of half a dozen," said Monica, handing her a paper. "Ask them to give you any three that are in, and tell them who they're for."

"Very good, Miss Monica," and Mary Ann finally departed.

Left to herself, Monica began to wonder how she should pass the weary hours of that hot June day.

"I wish Olive hadn't been yesterday, now," she mused; "because there is not the faintest chance of her coming over again to-day; she said she would come to-morrow if she could. Oh, dear! I do think some of the girls might come. I'd rather have Elsa, or even that little Amethyst Drury, than nothing but my own company all day long. I do wish I could have a dog, it would not be so sickeningly dull then." And she heaved a weary sigh of discontent. "What a nuisance this horrid sprain is! You simply can't do anything but read, when you can't move your leg, and I hate needlework. I'm glad I thought of getting Mary Ann to go for some fresh books. Heigho! I wish I hadn't hurried so over the last one yesterday, I should have had some left to read now, but it was so fascinating I couldn't leave off once I began."

At that moment a footfall was heard on the richly carpeted stairway, and Mrs. Beauchamp opened the door. Monica looked up in astonishment; it was quite an hour earlier than her grandmother usually paid her morning visit.

"Good morning, Monica," she said, as she bent and just touched the girl's forehead with cold, undemonstrative lips, "I hope your ankle is going on well."

"Oh, I suppose it is, but I wish it had never been ill," replied Monica with grim humour. "I'm sick of lying here."

"You have only yourself to blame," was the old lady's unconsoling reply; "if you had not been disobedient, all this would have been avoided." And she waved her slender white hand expressively towards Monica's injured limb.

With a pout, Monica looked out of the window, muttering something about "the same old tale."

Her grandmother, who was slightly deaf, did not catch the words, but she saw the gesture, and drew her own conclusions. With a sigh, Mrs. Beauchamp wished, for the hundredth time, that she had never undertaken the charge of this troublesome granddaughter; her coming into the prim household had made an end of all its restful quiet, and she never seemed free from anxiety about her. And yet--Conrad had intreated her so earnestly to have his only and much-loved child, and at the time she had seemed tractable enough. But oh! how greatly Monica had altered in eighteen short months; perhaps she had had mistaken ideas about her upbringing; perhaps, if she had been a little less strict in minor matters, things might have gone more smoothly; perhaps old Dr. Marley was right when he said: "It is easier to lead than to drive young people."

With these thoughts in her mind, the old lady made a proposition that nearly took Monica's breath away; so unexpected was it.

"I have been thinking that perhaps you might have a small dog of some kind, Monica; it would be company for you while you are laid up."

"Oh, grandmother!" was all the girl could find to say; but the look of intense pleasure which irradiated her whole face, entirely transforming it, was sufficient reward to Mrs. Beauchamp for the very real concession she was making; for, of all things, a mischievous, gambolling dog _indoors_, who would be sure to bark or whine just when she was having a little nap, was one that she objected to most.

"Of course, it must be a very nice quiet one, Monica, small and well-trained. Perhaps Richards might hear of one somewhere."

"Oh! grandmother, do you remember that day you decided I was to go to school?" Monica questioned, eagerly; "because Tom had just been telling me about a jolly little wire-haired terrier his father wanted a home for, when you sent for me."

"I do remember something of the sort, Monica," said the old lady, "but even if the dog were still to be had, it might not be just what we want."

"Well, I do wish you would send round to the stables and ask, grandmother," said Monica, coaxingly "because we could have him at once, I expect. We might have to wait ever so long before Richards came across one, he is so dreadfully slow. And it _is_ so dull up here, all alone."

"Well, I will see what can be done."

And the old lady departed, a comfortable feeling of having given pleasure warming her cold, reserved heart; while Monica reiterated again and again, in words which jarred terribly on her aristocratic nerves: "It's most awfully kind of you, grandmother! It _will_ be jolly to have a dog of my own."

To say that Monica waited patiently for results would be untrue. She was far too excited and eager about the matter to do that; but as she was alone, except for a flying visit from Barnes, who brought her some lunch, and as she could not move her leg, her impatience had a salutary amount of check. She could not think how it was her grandmother had ever brought her mind to think of such a thing, knowing well how keenly she objected to animals indoors; it puzzled her a good deal, especially after her disobedience earlier in the week. And Monica grew quite repentant for her misdeeds, as she considered the unexpected favour she was being granted.

An hour or so later a peculiar scratching noise along the corridor outside made Monica listen intently, and a second after there came a hesitating knock at the door.

"Come in," cried Monica, who was all excitement; and the door opened to admit Tom, the little stable-boy, who was leading the cutest looking wire-haired terrier imaginable, and was closely followed by Barnes.

"Oh, you darling!" cried Monica, who was infatuated with the dog at first sight; "do bring him close, Tom."

"Yes, miss," said Tom, with alacrity, pulling his forelock, and grinning all over his bright little face, as he clutched hold of the bit of strap that did duty for a collar, and dragged the terrier up to Monica's couch. "I hope you're better, miss," he ventured to say shyly, for Barnes, of whom he stood greatly in awe, was looking severely at him, and he had been bidden "to mind his behaviour."

"Oh, yes," said Monica, carelessly; she had no thoughts to spare on herself just then. "What's his name, Tom? Do put him up beside me."

"Be careful, now," said Barnes, a trifle sharply; she was not best pleased at this introduction into the household. "Remember your leg, Miss Monica."

"All right, Barnes, don't fidget! See, he's as quiet as possible. Good boy, dear old fellow!" and Monica stroked the ginger coloured head, and looked into the liquid brown eyes which had a wistful expression in them. He pricked up his ears at the tones of endearment, and licked her hands in response.

"'E 'ave took to you, an' no mistake, miss," said Tom, with huge delight. "Jack 'e 'ave been called, miss," he added, in answer to Monica's query, "but you'll find 'im a grander name, miss, now."

"No, I think Jack will do very well," said Monica, and the little dog, who knew by her fondling that he was being loved and made much of, gave a little grunt of satisfaction, and curled himself round on the couch beside his new mistress.

"Isn't he sweet, Barnes?"

"Oh, he's a nice enough little dog, as dogs go, Miss Monica, but I have no particular fancy for them," was the maid's somewhat grudging reply. And then she added: "Now then, my boy, you'd better be off to your work again."

"Yes'm. Good mornin', miss," stammered Tom, in confusion, for Barnes' repelling tones made him feel as if he had done something wrong.

"Oh, good-bye, Tom. I'm awfully glad to have Jack," said Monica, with a bright smile, which made the little lad feel at ease again, and remained in his memory for many a day. "I shall be coming out on the lawn in a few days' time, and then you must come round and see him."

The little newcomer proved an endless source of pleasure and amusement to Monica; he had such quaint ways, and made himself thoroughly happy and contented in his new home. Even Mrs. Beauchamp was obliged to confess that he was no trouble; he spent hours curled up on the rug which was thrown over Monica's knees, as if he had been accustomed to an invalid mistress all his life.

"You wait until this tiresome sprain is well," Monica would often say to him, "and then you shall have a very different existence, Jack."

The old doctor made great friends with him when he came to see his patient the next morning, and went off chuckling with pleasure over the result of his plain-speaking to Mrs. Beauchamp, a few days before.

"She'll get on fast enough now," he said to himself, as he trotted down the drive; "young folk want young things about them, and up there," with a suggestive glance backward at the stately residence he had just left, "they are all as old as Methuselah. She looked a totally different being this morning, from the sulky, discontented girl I saw last time. But I don't deny she's a handful--takes after her mother, I suppose. Conrad was as nice a fellow as ever breathed, but I never had much of a fancy for his wife, poor thing; she was too much of a woman of the world for old Henry Marley. But there, he isn't, by any means, all he ought to be." And the dear old doctor sighed as he realised how far short he was of being a true copy of the Great Example.

The doctor had not long left, when a footman called at Carson Rise, with a basket containing some magnificent peaches and hot-house flowers, "with Mrs. Howell's compliments, and she would be glad to know how the young lady was."

Mrs. Beauchamp was out for a drive, so the parlourmaid came up to Monica for a message.

"Oh, Harriet, how lovely!" cried the girl; "do take them out carefully while I write a little note to send back. How very kind of Mrs. Howell."

"The same lady has sent every day to enquire for you, miss," said the maid, who was very much impressed by the grandeur of the Howell livery, and the importance of the individual who wore it.

"Has she really? No one has mentioned it before," said Monica; "I ought to have been told." And there was a suggestion of displeasure in her tones.

"Mrs. Beauchamp knew, miss, of course, and so did Barnes," Harriet hastened to say, in defence of herself.

"Very well, Harriet, it was not your fault," said Monica, and she busied herself in writing a little girlish note of thanks, which brought tears of pleasure and gratification to the eyes of the good-natured, motherly woman who received it, and then slipped it into her pocket for fear her tyrannical young daughter should come across it, and make fun of it. For Lily Howell had not yet grown reconciled to the idea of "_that_ Monica Beauchamp" getting into her home, and prying into everything, and then going off to make fun of all the mistakes she knew her mother must have made.

There had been a great scene upon her return home, on the Monday evening, and she had exclaimed long and loudly against the fate which had allowed such an unfortunate thing to come to pass.

Mrs. Howell, instead of severely reprimanding her daughter for being so insulting and rude, had wept feebly, and bowed beneath the angry girl's storm of words; but in her heart she treasured the remembrance of the kind words and very real gratitude of a daughter of the aristocracy to a poor, common-place woman, such as she was allowed no opportunity of forgetting that she, Caroline Howell, was.

*CHAPTER XII.*

*"A HUNGRY FEELING IN MY BRAIN."*

"What do you think of this?" said Monica, that same Saturday afternoon, as she pointed to Jack, who was lying curled up on her rug.

And Olive was astounded, as her friend knew she would be, at such an unexpected sight.

"Oh! isn't he a dear fellow?" she cried, rapturously, patting his head, and playing with his well-shaped ears, as Jack first sniffed enquiringly at the boots and dress of his young mistress's friend, and then, with a wag of his stumpy bit of tail, sat down on the floor at her feet, and rested his head against her knees. "He is going to like me at once."

"Of course, he is," said Monica; "it will be Jack's business to like all my friends and hate all my enemies."

"Oh, Monica, I don't think you've got any enemies!"

"Haven't I?" enquired Monica quizzically; "what about Lily Howell?"

"Oh, I forgot her," replied the other merrily; "and yet I ought not to have, for she's been in such a temper all the week. She's tried every way she can to get Elsa and me into trouble, and when she finds she can't manage it, she's in a worse tantrum than ever. I can't think why she's in such a mood," continued Olive, meditatively, "unless it is----"

"Oh, I expect she's huffy because Mr. Howell took me into his house," interrupted Monica, "and she wasn't at home to see all that went on. But I don't care a straw for her, or what she thinks; she's too common and vulgar to think about. Now her mother is the dearest old creature," she went on, in quite a different tone; "she was as kind and nice as possible. And Harriet tells me she's sent every day to ask how I am, and it was she who sent those lovely peaches and flowers. Do have a peach, Olive; they're awfully nice."

And Monica, taking one herself, pushed the plate containing them nearer to her friend.

"How nice of her!" said Olive, taking a bite of the luscious fruit, while Jack looked up to ascertain whether she was eating anything that he could share. "No, you won't like this, old boy," she said, with a merry laugh.

"He can beg beautifully," said Monica. "When we've eaten these, I'll put him through all his tricks."

A merry quarter of an hour passed in watching Jack beg, and "trust for it," and "die," and "give three cheers for the king." Then, when he was tired, and lay curled up asleep on Monica's couch again, the two girls had a thorough good chat about everything dear to their school-girl hearts, until a clock striking the hour of four warned Olive that she must be going.

Monica begged her to stay to tea with her, saying: "Grandmother quite expects you to."

But, much as Olive would have liked it, she was obliged to refuse, as she had promised her mother to meet Kathleen and the children at a quarter past, at a certain place, so as to walk home together.

"Oh, there's heaps more I wanted to ask," said Monica. "I never dreamt but that you would stay to tea. What did Fraeulein say to my being away yesterday? There will be no chance now of my coming out top in German, and that's the only thing I had a shadow of a chance about." And Monica looked rueful.

"Oh, she was very sorry about your ankle. She had heard from the other mistresses, I expect, for when I tried to explain she said: 'No, yes, but that is ver' sad!' in her broken English. You know how she says it; I can't imitate her properly," said Olive. "But, I say, Monica, you won't be away long, will you? Surely not three weeks?" And Olive's bright face assumed a dismal expression at the thought of being so long without her friend.

"Dr. Marley said this morning it might be better before then, but not fit for school. It is a bore; I wish that old bicycle was further." And the girl groaned.

"So do I," acquiesced Olive sympathetically; neither of them apparently taking into consideration that the bicycle was quite the least guilty of everything and everybody concerned.

"Well, I must go now, but I'll come over as often as I can next week."

"Not to-morrow?"

"Why, that's Sunday!" said Olive, in astonishment.

"What of that?" queried Monica.

"Why, there's no time on Sundays: we go to church twice, and to Miss Grant's class in the afternoon. Besides, mother doesn't let us go for walks on Sundays."

"What a funny idea! I never go, because there's nothing to go for; but I don't think grandmother would mind. She dozes all the afternoon, and I read. Oh, that reminds me: here is the book I promised to lend you, Olive," and she drew it from under her cushions.

"'_A Cruel Fate_';" Olive read the title aloud, and glanced at the closely printed pages. "It doesn't look _very_ interesting, Monica."

"Oh, it is, awfully. You can't think how it fascinated me."

"I'm sure mother would not think it was a nice book," she said doubtfully.

"Oh, fiddlesticks!" was Monica's rather rude reply. "You take it home and read it on the quiet, and if you don't want to borrow some more next time you come, I shall be very much mistaken. Your mother can't expect to keep you tied to her apron-strings always." And there was again that suggestion of a sneer underlying the words which Olive could not stand.

A girl with higher principles would have said: "No, thank you, Monica; I would rather not have anything to do with it." And if Olive Franklyn had had the courage to refuse the evil that afternoon, she would have saved herself much sorrow. But she weakly gave in, and slipped the book into her string-bag, well knowing that she was flatly disobeying her mother's commands.

Poor Olive! She carried more away with her from Carson Rise than the novel; already the poison was beginning its deadly work. How could she manage so that not even Elsa should know she had it in her possession? She was very differently situated from Monica: in their large family they had no secret drawers or private hiding-places, everything was common property, and she could depend on nowhere being absolutely safe.

She was so deep in thought about it, that she almost ran into Kathleen and the children before she knew they were approaching her, and she was so preoccupied during the walk home that Kathleen teased her about having left her tongue at Carson Rise. She pulled herself together then, but alas! the same complaint became an habitual one, as time went on and Olive Franklyn, careless, light-hearted, and fun-loving, but hitherto always open and frank, became moody, abstracted, peevish, and discontented.

That first book was but the forerunner of many more; she became absolutely possessed by an insatiable thirst for novel-reading. Indeed, the girl became so engrossed in them that ordinary, everyday life had no attraction for her, the distorted views of life which the novels gave her totally unfitting her for both school and home associations.

Lois and Kathleen noticed the change in their young sister and puzzled over it, but their mother put it down to Monica being laid up.

"See how anxious she is to go over to see her friend as often as possible," said Mrs. Franklyn; "it is evident that they are very fond of one another, and she misses her companionship. It will be all right when Monica gets back to school; Olive will be her usual happy, contented self again then."

And as they had no inkling of the land of unrealities in which the girl was living, her sisters accepted the mother's verdict, and good-naturedly made it possible for Olive to go over to Carson Rise quite frequently, little dreaming that, each time she went, fresh fuel was added to the flame.

Monica, who, at first, had smiled with satisfaction when she found her prediction come true, began to be a little alarmed as time went on and Olive kept continually asking for a fresh book. She was rather a slow reader herself, but Olive seemed literally to devour them.

"How _do_ you manage to find time to read such a lot?" she said incredulously one Monday afternoon, when they were sitting in a rustic summer-house, in a shady corner of the sheltered garden, and Olive had admitted that she had already finished a three-volume novel that she had taken home only the Saturday before. "I can't think how you do it!"

"I can't leave off," said Olive. "As it happens, Elsa is grinding hard for her music exam., so she spends hours in the drawing-room practising, and that leaves me the 'den' pretty much to myself. But if she weren't, I should just _have_ to make opportunities somehow, for I am perfectly wretched when I can't have a read."

"But I thought your people objected to novel-reading. Do none of them ever catch you at it? and how do you manage to do your home-work?" said Monica, still incredulous.

"No, they haven't yet; but I live in dread of discovery every day," confessed her friend. "As to lessons, I manage to scrape along somehow."

"Well, I'm almost sorry I ever lent you a book," said Monica, who could detect a subtle difference in Olive, and felt uneasy.

"Oh, Monica, how often and often I've wished that I'd never borrowed that first one!" said the poor infatuated girl; "and, sometimes, I think I'll never touch a novel again. But I always have to; I can't seem to live without reading them now. There's a hungry feeling in my brain. I can't explain what I mean, but it feels quite empty, somehow, until I have a good read, and then I feel better. Don't you ever get sensations like that?" and the poor child looked pitifully at her companion.

"No, I can't say I do," admitted Monica; "and I hope I never shall. I like reading, certainly, and there is more excitement in a regular novel than there is in ordinary little goody-goody books. But I'm not so keen on them as I was; they're rather horrid sometimes. But I think you'd better give them up, Olive."

"Oh, I can't, Monica!"

"Well, I really don't think I shall lend you any more."

But Olive pleaded so pitifully for just one, that Monica reluctantly gave in, saying: "That's the only one I've got that you haven't had, so you must make the most of it. I'm not sure that I'm going to have any more."

"Oh, Monica, _do_, to please me!" pleaded Olive. "I'm not at all sure. By the way, did, you bring back those you've finished, because they must go to the library."

"No, I couldn't; they would have made rather a large parcel, and I had no way of hiding it, especially as Elsa and Paddy came half-way with me."

"Well, take good care no one spies them," cautioned Monica. "I don't want to have the credit of leading you astray."

And Olive promised to be careful, as indeed she always was. As a matter of fact, not the least of the sins to be laid at the door of her novel-reading on the sly was the deceit she had to practise in order to hide the books.

Three weeks had already sped since the half-term holiday, and still Monica could scarcely bear to stand on her ankle, so severe had been the sprain. There was little likelihood of her being back at school for quite another week or ten days; indeed, Mrs. Beauchamp had hinted that it seemed hardly worth while for her to go again that term, at all. But the kindly old doctor, seeing that Monica's heart was set upon it, had said: "Oh, yes, it will do her good to rub up against the other girls for a week or two. The holidays will be quite long enough, seven weeks or more." And so it was settled that, as soon as the ankle was really to be depended upon, Monica should go back to finish out the term.

She was thinking of it a few days later, as she kept her grandmother company in the drawing-room after tea. The old lady had seemed much less stiff lately, and Monica had begun to think that she might grow fond of her in time. She was so kind, too, about Jack, who was allowed to be wherever his mistress was, even in the drawing-room; certainly he was a particularly good dog. He was lying on the hearth-rug now, fast asleep, while Mrs. Beauchamp was knitting some fleecy wool into a wrap; and Monica, who was no longer compelled to keep her leg up, so long as she did not walk on it much, was lazily, and by no means elegantly, lounging in the depths of an easy chair.

Suddenly Jack pricked up his ears, and gave a short, sharp little bark, there was the sound of the front door opening and shutting, and the next minute "Miss Franklyn" was announced.

Mrs. Beauchamp greeted the visitor cordially. She had met Lois once before and had been prepossessed by the gentle tones and ladylike bearing of the doctor's eldest daughter.

Monica jumped up hastily, with a pleased exclamation, but she soon saw that something was wrong. There was a stern expression about Lois' lips which was not habitual to her, and she had brought a parcel, which Monica could see only too well contained books.

She scarcely responded to Monica's, "How do you do, Miss Franklyn?" but turned to Mrs. Beauchamp and began to explain her errand without delay.

"I am very sorry to have to draw your attention to these books, Mrs. Beauchamp," she said, laying a three-volume novel and another library book on an octagonal table beside her. "It seems that for some weeks--all the time your granddaughter has been laid up, at any rate--she has been lending Olive books of this description. I do not know whether Monica has your permission to read them, but it has been one of my dear mother's strictest rules that none of us should read any novel, except standard works, until we had left school; then we might do so if we wished. As it happens, neither my sister Kathleen, nor myself, has the slightest inclination for literature of _that_ kind," and here Lois glanced contemptuously at the books, "but Olive seems to have been thoroughly infatuated with them. We have all noticed a great change in her lately, but could not account for it, until, by mere accident this afternoon, three of these books were found by one of the children, carefully hidden in an old doll's house which is rarely used. Seeing that it was useless to deny it, Olive has confessed to my mother the unhappy deceit that she has been practising, and produced the remaining book from her bedroom. She says she has been most miserable all the time, but was evidently frightfully fascinated, or she could never have been so wicked as to deceive our mother, who is very grieved and upset about it all. However, Olive has at length promised solemnly not to read any more of this kind of book, and I believe she will keep her word, unless she is tempted. That is why I have come to ask you to forbid Monica lending any more to Olive, if she is allowed to read them herself."