Chapter IV: Part 4

"Not for anything, you old silly," said Pamela. "And now, look here, I want us to make a plan together. I was just wondering--what would be the best thing for you to do about Isobel!"

"How do you mean?"

"Why, we've all got to go on living under this roof together for five more months, and you can't go on being worried and miserable and dreading things all that time! Besides, there's no need. We might just as well all be comfortable together."

"What do you think I'd better do?" asked Beryl. "You see, I can't let Isobel know that I've been telling her stories all the time--I can't tell her the truth now. Besides," Beryl's voice was indignant, "what business is it of hers? She shouldn't question me like she does."

"Of course she shouldn't," agreed Pamela. "But I'm sure it's done thoughtlessly. She doesn't understand a bit; if she did, she'd be a deal more kindly. She's not a bad sort really, you know, Beryl. I've met several girls like her--I think it's the fault of her upbringing."

"She can make people feel so _small_ sometimes, just by the tone of her voice," said Beryl. "Oh, it's hateful! I--I couldn't bear it."

"Look here," said Pamela, "I'll speak to her, if you like--just give her a hint not to bother you with questions. I won't tell her anything you don't want me to. Will you leave it to me--and trust me not to say too much?"

"Oh, Pamela, it is kind of you. If only you would-- Of course I trust you-- Just tell her what you think best.... Only I can't help feeling a coward for not facing things myself...."

"That's all right. It's easier to do it for another person than it is for oneself," said Pamela. "And now you must go to sleep--you'll look all washed out in the morning if you don't. And, remember, we've got to _enjoy_ our stay in this house--let's get all the fun out of it we can, shall we? ... Don't worry any more about Isobel--it'll be all right, you just see! ... Good-night, Beryl. And--Beryl--thank you for showing me your mother's letter."

When Pamela had gone Beryl cried a little more, but they were a different kind of tears this time, because she had found a friend, and her heart was full of gratitude.

After this Pamela took the first opportunity that occurred to speak with Isobel alone. She was not quite sure of the best way to deal with Isobel, but decided on the whole it would be best to tell her quite straightforwardly as much as she meant to tell her--arouse her sympathy and interest, but not her suspicions.

"I say, Isobel," she began, "I know something that I think you will be interested to hear--about Beryl."

Isobel pricked up her ears immediately.

"What is it?" she asked.

"You know you were wondering why she wore that short-sleeved silk blouse?"

"Yes," replied Isobel, smiling.

"You remember it amused you because it was unsuitable?"

"Yes," Isobel assented, and laughed.

"Well, Beryl only possesses two blouses in the world, at present--that silk one and another one; she wears them in turn, poor kiddy--and hates them both.... Her aunt, with whom she lived, chose them for her. She hasn't got any others, though she's going to buy some with her pocket-money now. She's very sensitive about her clothes."

"Oh," said Isobel, looking puzzled; she wondered how Pamela meant her to take the information.

"Well," said Pamela, looking straight into Isobel's eyes, so that Isobel presently began to feel vaguely uncomfortable, "I believe she has an idea that you laugh at them--and it hurts her. So I thought I'd tell you, because I know you wouldn't want to purposely hurt her."

"No, of course not. I didn't know--" began Isobel.

"She's had rather a rough time on the whole--losing her mother and father, and being brought up by an aunt with whom she is obviously not in sympathy----"

"Why, from what she's told me, I don't think she's had a particularly rough time," Isobel interrupted.

"She makes light of it, no doubt," Pamela replied. "But all the same she's not had a particularly happy time, and I would like her to be happy while she is here with us, wouldn't you?"

"Why, of course," agreed Isobel. "Why shouldn't she?"

"She tries to put her unhappy life behind her, but--well, you know, Isobel, you keep reminding her of it!"

"_I_ keep reminding her! What do you mean?"

"I found her crying last night because you kept worrying her with questions," said Pamela bluntly.

Isobel flushed.

"Good gracious! How ridiculous! But I only ask her ordinary questions. Why should she mind that?"

"They're questions about the past unhappy life with her aunt--a time she wants to forget. You keep reviving it. And if she wants to forget--we have no right to force her to remember, have we?"

"Of course not," said Isobel, haughtily.

"I didn't mean to tell you about her crying, at first--but I guessed if you knew you wouldn't let it happen again. It was only because you didn't know. Where she went to school, what she did at her aunt's, where she bought her clothes--things like that don't really concern any of us----"

"Not if there's nothing to hide," said Isobel suddenly. "But it seems as if there is something in Beryl's case--and so she won't talk about it."

"Why on earth should there be anything to hide! If she's been unhappy--why should she wish to talk about it? Let her forget it. Come, Isobel, I know you'll be a good sport, and not bother her with any more questions. Let's give her a happy time while she's here, shan't we? Shake hands on it."

Isobel took Pamela's outstretched hand, but her dignity was still a little ruffled.

"Beryl seems to have made a lot of fuss--if there's nothing to hide," she said in a slightly offended tone.

"Oh, she's only extra sensitive.... Why ever should there be anything to hide!" repeated Pamela, feeling as if she had not been quite successful in convincing Isobel. "It's only that she's been unhappy--and she's been poor. Lack of money makes such a difference in one's confidence in one's self. It oughtn't to--but it does," she ruminated. "Anyway, you won't ask her any more questions, will you?"

"I shouldn't think of doing so--after what you've told me," Isobel replied coldly.

"Thanks so much," said Pamela, with genuine warmth. "We'll give her a real happy time while she's here."

And if Beryl's happiness had lain in the hands of these two girls, it would have been assured during the next few months. But, unfortunately, there was a third person in Barrowfield whose hands were to play an unexpected part in the future happiness of Beryl.

A black kitten was responsible for introducing Pamela to Elizabeth Bagg. Pamela found the kitten crying in a field--a soft, purry, rather frightened little kitten, that had lost its way. Pamela picked it up, and made inquiries about it in the village. No one seemed to own it, nor recognize it, at first; and then Aggie Jones, who was leaning out of her door as usual, said she believed it belonged to the Baggs.

So Pamela went up the little lane by the blacksmith's to inquire. She soon became aware of the vicinity of 'Alice Maud Villa.' As she walked along the lane her ears caught the sound of laughter and the shouting of children's voices, which proceeded from a small house on the right-hand side; also Pamela's nose informed her that a delicious smell of boiling toffee came from the same quarter. Then she came to the house, and saw the name painted over the doorway. It was a very clean-looking little house, with brightly polished door-knocker and letter-box, and the curtains were fresh and dainty.

Pamela knocked several times before anyone heard her, the noise inside the house being so great. Then the door was flung open and a swarm of little Baggs and a strong smell of cooked toffee came out to greet her.

The return of the kitten was hailed with joy, and Pamela, though glad to find its home, watched anxiously to see that the children did not pull the kitten about nor tease it. Pamela was very fond of animals, and had found the absence of a cat or a dog at Chequertrees very strange. She watched the little black kitten, and saw that it did not seem at all afraid of the children, and that, on the other hand, the children handled it very carefully, in the way that only children who have a real love for animals can handle a kitten. Pamela was relieved to notice this; she knew too many cases where a kitten had been thoughtlessly kept "for the children to play with," a practice she thought most bad for the children, who were not taught to treat animals kindly, and most cruel for the little teased kittens. However, there was nothing to worry over in this case, and when, a moment later, Elizabeth Bagg, in a holland overall, appeared in the doorway, Pamela, glancing at her pale, strong face, felt she understood why the children behaved gently to the kitten. There would be no thoughtless cruelty in the house Elizabeth Bagg ruled over.

She had a kindly face, with clear grey eyes and a frank expression. It was strange that with such different features, and with so pale a complexion, she yet had a strong resemblance to her ruddy-faced brother, the cabman. Her voice and manners, though, were entirely unlike his. Her hair, which was jet black, was parted in the centre and brushed smoothly down each side of her face, and coiled in one thick plait round her head; it was a quaint style, rather severe, but it suited Elizabeth Bagg.

Pamela explained about the kitten, and then introduced herself, mentioning that she was staying at Chequertrees, and then, as was her usual way, plunged straight to the point that interested her most.

"I have been wanting very much to meet you," Pamela said, "because I hear that you are an artist. I do a little sketching myself, and I'm awfully interested in anyone who paints. Would you--would you think it very impertinent on my part if I asked to see some of your pictures. I should _love_ to, if you don't mind--but only when it suits you, of course--not now, if you're busy."

A faint pink had crept into Elizabeth Bagg's cheeks.

"I should be pleased to show you some of my work," she said courteously. She spoke in a queer, stiff little way, so that until one knew her it was hard to understand exactly how she felt about anything.

Pamela, for instance, was not at all sure whether Elizabeth Bagg was pleased by her request or resented it. Whereas Elizabeth Bagg was really more astonished than anything else, though certainly pleased.

"Would you please come in," Elizabeth continued. "I'm not busy at present. The children and I have just finished making some toffee. I promised them last week that we should make some to-day."

"If they were very good, I suppose?" Pamela smiled down at the six little Baggs, who were standing round, gazing with open-mouthed interest at her.

"No," replied Elizabeth, to Pamela's surprise; "I had promised it them in any case."

"It smells delicious, anyway," said Pamela, not knowing quite what to reply.

"Would you like some when it's cool?" asked the little Bagg girl, who was least shy and most generous.

"If you can spare a little bit--yes, I would," laughed Pamela.

"The nutty kind--or the un-nutty kind?" anxiously inquired the elder Bagg boy, in a thick voice. He was rather greedy, and hoped Pamela would say the un-nutty, as he liked the nutty sort best himself. Fortunately she did choose the kind he liked least, and he eyed her with more favour than he had hitherto done.

The eldest of the children, a girl, was about eleven years old, and the youngest was about five. There were four girls and two boys, and Pamela noticed that they were all dressed in sensible linen overalls--things that were strongly made and easily washed. The children seemed to be a healthy, noisy, happy-go-lucky little crowd; but although Pamela was fond of children, she did not pay so much attention to the six little Baggs on this first visit as she did on subsequent occasions. Her attention was centred on their aunt, and her pictures.

While Elizabeth Bagg took Pamela upstairs to her 'studio' the little Baggs disappeared into the kitchen to watch the toffee cooling, and with permission to break some of the toffee that had already set into small pieces; during which operation long and excited arguments seemed to occur with great frequency--arguments that more often than not ended in a scream or a howl. Hearing which, Elizabeth Bagg would put down the picture she was showing Pamela, and with a muttered apology would vanish downstairs, and restore peace.

Elizabeth Bagg's 'studio' was really her bedroom, but in the daytime, when the camp-bedstead was covered with a piece of flowered chintz, and the rest of the bedroom furniture made as inconspicuous as possible, the room served very well as a workroom. The walls were whitewashed, making a good background for Elizabeth's pictures, which were hung thickly all around. A few had frames--but only a few. Most of them were without. She seemed to do all kinds of subjects, from landscapes to quaint studies of children, painted in a bold, unusual style. On an easel by the window stood Elizabeth's latest study, half finished; Pamela was surprised to see that it was a painting of the old windmill that she herself had tried to sketch. As Pamela stood looking at it, she realized that there was something in Elizabeth Bagg's work that she herself would never be able to get. "I'm only a dabbler," thought Pamela to herself. "This is the real thing."

"It's splendid," said Pamela aloud, gazing at the picture with admiration. "Do you know"--she turned impulsively to Elizabeth, who was standing behind her--"it makes me feel as if I want to go home, and tear up all my drawings and start afresh. Your pictures are so--so alive. If only I could get that _living_ touch into my work. But I feel I'll never be able to do it--when I think of my own things--and then look at this."

"I am more than double your age," said Elizabeth Bagg steadily, though her heart was beating rapidly at these, the first words of genuine praise and encouragement that she had had for a long time. "I have been working for many years past."

"That's not it," said Pamela, shaking her head. "There's something in your pictures, that if you had not got it _in_ you, no amount of practice would produce. I can't explain any better than that--but you know what I mean, don't you? I think your work's fine.... Have you ever exhibited any of your pictures anywhere?"

Elizabeth Bagg shook her head.

"No," she replied, and a tinge of colour crept into her cheeks again.

"Oh, but you _should_," said Pamela, enthusiastically, looking at a charming study of a little girl in a red tam-o'-shanter.

Pamela's enthusiasm affected Elizabeth Bagg strangely. She felt suddenly much younger than she had felt for years past. It was so long since anyone had noticed her pictures. Her days were spent in household duties for her brother and the children (just as Martha had told Pamela), with every spare half hour snatched for her painting. Some days, when she knew there would be no half hour to spare, Elizabeth would get up very early in the morning to continue a picture, and would feel all the fresher to face the work afterward, knowing that her picture was progressing, surely if slowly. Twice a week she gave painting lessons at a 'School for the Daughters of Gentlemen' in Inchmoor, a practice at which her brother had ceased to grumble when he found it brought her in a few shillings a week. He considered her 'daubing' a fearful waste of time; she had far better be employed in making a tasty apple-pie or mending the children's stockings, he thought--work for which Elizabeth received her 'board and lodging.' Old Tom Bagg flattered himself that he was good-naturedly indulgent to Elizabeth's little hobby, nevertheless Pamela noticed that there were no pictures of Elizabeth's anywhere about the house--they were all packed away in her own room.

Pamela did not know of the gratitude Elizabeth felt toward her; she only knew that she admired Elizabeth's pictures immensely, and felt a keen interest in the painter of them.

As Elizabeth said she would like very much to see some of Pamela's work, Pamela arranged to bring some round the following day.

And so the friendship began.

When Pamela reached Chequertrees that evening she wrote a long post-card home--for the first month was just ended. Surely there was never a card with so much written on it before--unless it was the card she received from home the following day, telling her that all was well at Oldminster.

*CHAPTER XI*

*THE WISHING WELL*

For a while things settled down into smoothly running order. Now that the first month had passed the days seemed to slip by in an amazing fashion--as they generally do after the newness of strange surroundings has worn off. The four girls got on very well together on the whole; of course, there were occasional little breezes--which was only natural considering that four such different temperaments were thrown constantly into each other's society; but the breezes never gathered into a tempest, and always, before long, the sun was out again.

One of the breezes sprang up during the sixth week on account of a protest Isobel made regarding Caroline's choice of puddings. It was Caroline's turn again to arrange the week's meals, and it must certainly be admitted that to choose suet roly-poly on Monday and Thursday, apple dumplings on Tuesday, and boiled treacle roll on Wednesday and Friday, was, to say the least of it, asking for trouble. But when on the Saturday a solidly substantial Christmas pudding appeared, it was too much for Isobel, and she protested vigorously at the stodginess of Caroline's puddings.

Caroline, looking up from the solid slice of pudding on her plate, took the remarks badly, and after a few sullen replies got decidedly annoyed. She was making the most of her week, she said, because she knew she would not get another pudding worth calling a pudding until her turn came round again. Even the glories of Isobel's elaborate puddings--with cream and crystallized cherries on top--had failed to rouse any enthusiasm in Caroline. Those kinds of pudding were all right to look at, but they had 'no insides' to them, commented Caroline, as she passed her plate for a third helping of Christmas pudding.

Martha's patience and willingness in making the various kinds of pudding chosen were things to be marvelled at; but she seemed to take great pride and pleasure in showing her skill at cooking whatever the girls required. To be sure, there was no lack of praise for her from the four girls, who thoroughly appreciated her efforts to do her best for them.

"It always does me good to go and have a talk with Martha," Pamela would say. "She's so cheerful--and so willing and unselfish. Nothing is any trouble to her."

Martha never demurred at nor criticized any of the puddings chosen--not even Caroline's recurring choice of roly-polies, though she looked a trifle anxious and made them as light as possible.

"And on Friday we'll have boiled treacle roll," Caroline had informed her.

"And what's nicer!" Martha had replied, unaware of the chorus of muffled groans on the other side of the kitchen door, as three girls, rolling their eyes in an exaggerated manner, crept stealthily away along the passage.

Then on the Saturday had come Isobel's protest. Caroline maintained that she had a right to choose any puddings she liked during her week, and while quite agreeing with her as to this point, Pamela mentioned that she thought it would be more considerate of Caroline if she would make her choice a little less 'suety.' They discussed the matter thoroughly, and finally came to an agreement, Caroline undertaking to vary her choice if the others promised to have the kind of pudding that was _really_ a pudding on one day in each week. And so matters were arranged and the breeze blew over.

In spite of lack of encouragement or interest from the others, Caroline had sent in her name to Lady Prior's secretary as one who was willing to make things for the bazaar. And there had followed a day when two ladies of the organizing committee had called to see Caroline to talk about the articles that were most needed for the various stalls. It was a blissfully important day for Caroline, and she had dreams that night of crocheted cosy-covers, and little pink silk pin-cushions, and afterward, until the bazaar took place, was scarcely ever seen without knitting-needles or sewing of some kind or other in her hands.

The two committee ladies were both very large ladies, and were so well wrapped up in cloaks and scarves for motoring that they looked even larger than they really were. They drove up to the front gate in a very large motor car, and being ushered into the drawing-room by the respectful Ellen, both sat down on the small couch, which they succeeded in completely obscuring. They were both exceedingly amiable, and discussed matters in rather loud and assured voices with the bashful Caroline, who not only promised to make a number of things for the bazaar, but was eventually persuaded to preside at one of the stalls.

"All the stall-holders are to wear Japanese costumes. A charming idea, don't you think so?" smiled one of the ladies.

"A very, very sweet idea," said the other. "Of course, there will be no bother of getting the costumes ready; we are arranging to hire a number for the day. You'll have to come up and choose which one you like when the time draws near."

Caroline smiled, and said she thought it a nice idea. Fortunately, the fact that the Japanese style, with chrysanthemums in her hair, would not suit her in the least did not occur to Caroline. She was not a vain girl with regard to her appearance, though she was rather proud of her accomplishments in the sewing line.

But when Isobel heard about the Japanese costume for Caroline she nearly suffocated herself with laughter at the picture her mind's eye presented her with of solemn Caroline in a butterfly kimono and chrysanthemums pinned coquettishly above each ear. However, Caroline was not within hearing when Isobel learnt the news from Beryl, so no harm was done.

Isobel would have liked to join in the bazaar herself, but until she knew for certain about her relationship with the family at the Manor House, she decided that it was better not to lay herself open to the chance of meeting Lady Prior. Of course she had questioned Martha about the Priors, but nothing Martha could tell her shed any light on the Priors' connexions, as Sir Henry was practically a new-comer to Barrowfield, having bought the Manor House on the death of the late owner a few years ago.

As a rule Martha was a useful mine of information on people and places in Barrowfield, and many an interesting morsel of gossip had come to the girls through Martha.

It was through her, for instance, that they first heard of the Wishing Well.

One evening when Pamela was showing Martha a sketch she had made of an old barn and some pine trees, Martha said:

"Why, that's near the top of Long Lane, isn't it?--near where the Wishing Well is! And a very handsome picture it makes, to be sure."

"The Wishing Well!" said Pamela. "Where's that? It sounds exciting."

"Well, you know as you gets near the top of Long Lane," said Martha, busily stoning raisins into a basin that stood on the kitchen table, "on your right hand, as you're going up, you pass a white gate that leads into a field and an old disused chalk quarry--there's poppies and long grass growing all about in the summer--and there's a few trees at the top of the field, at the head of the scooped-out chalk-pit.... Well, a few yards inside the gate, on your left, and almost hidden by an overhanging hedge, is the well. You probably wouldn't notice it if you wasn't looking for it! But there it is, as sure as I'm sitting here, stoning these raisins--and Ellen will tell you the same as it's the truth I'm speaking."

"And why is it called a Wishing Well?" inquired Pamela.

"Oh, there's some old story that if you was to write a wish on a piece of paper and throw it into the well on a moonlight night, whatever you wished would come true," Martha chuckled. "But I don't know as I believes it--though I _did_ have a wish that way once--in my young days, mind you----"

"And did it come true?" asked Pamela, eagerly.

"Well, no--I can't say it did," replied Martha, "but then, according to the story it was my fault. I ought to have kept it secret, and I went and spoke it out to some one, not thinking like--and so it didn't come true."

"Didn't you wish again ever?"

Martha shook her head. "You can only wish once--according to the story ... but mind you, I don't say there's any truth in it, one way or the other."

"But don't you know anyone else who has wished and who has had their wish granted?" asked Pamela, to whom the idea appealed strongly.

"I can't truthfully say I do--not for certain," said Martha. "Though I knows several what have _said_ such and such a thing has happened because they wished it to--down the well--and it's their wish come true.... But how do I know they're speaking the truth? Eh? They mustn't tell what they've wished till it does come true, or else it won't come true at all. And when a thing happens, it's easy enough to say you wished it to, isn't it? ... So you see you can't rely on no one--not knowing how honest they are--but can only try for yourself and see."

"I should love to have a wish," said Pamela, gazing thoughtfully into the glowing kitchen fire. "I like to _believe_ I believe in Wishing Wells, and goblins and spells and enchantments and things like that, but I'm not really sure that I _do_.... Anyway, I think we might all go up Long Lane on a moonlight night, and have a wish--_just in case_ it really is a Wishing Well.... I'm sure Beryl will love the idea--they all will, I think. You'll tell us just what to do, won't you, Martha?"

Martha laughed. "Yes, indeed," she said. "But, mind you, I don't say there's anything in it."

The outcome of this conversation was an excursion up Long Lane a few nights later when the moon was at the full. All four girls entered into the spirit of the adventure in high spirits, though Caroline rather spoilt the romantic glamour that Pamela had conjured up by insisting on wearing her goloshes in case she got her feet wet in the damp grass.

"Oh, Caroline, how _can_ you! We ought not to speak of such things as goloshes--practical, matter-of-fact, everyday goloshes--in the same breath as Wishing Wells," said Pamela, in a mock tragic voice. "But still, I suppose it's very sensible of you," she added, laughing.

The four girls started off up Long Lane, chatting and laughing, each with a piece of paper and pencil to write her wish when the well was reached. It would be so much more romantic, Pamela said, to write it beside the well in the moonlight, rather than beside the dining-room table in the gaslight.

"I hope you each know what you're going to wish," said Isobel. "It'll be too chilly to stand about making up our minds when we get there."

Long Lane stretched from the blacksmith's forge, that stood on the same side of Barrowfield Green as Chequertrees, past Tom Bagg's house, and up the hill to a small inn, and a handful of scattered cottages a mile and a half away. The lane was set with high hedges on either side, and was a gradual ascent all the way.

As the girls drew near the top end, and the gate leading to the chalk quarry came in sight, they fell silent, each trying to put into shape the wish she was going to write in a few minutes.

The well was much as Martha had described, though even more hidden and overgrown with trails of creeper from a high bank of shrubs above it than they had expected to find. Pamela was obliged to draw the trails aside before they could see the dark, still water.

"Can you see the moon reflected in the water? We must make sure of that," reminded Beryl.

Long white clouds were drifting slowly across the face of the moon, but as they passed, and the moon emerged again, her reflection could be seen in the well.

"Yes," said Pamela. "So--now--quick--let's write our wishes and wrap a stone inside the papers so that they'll sink--and drop them in the water while the moon's out." She looked up overhead. "It'll be clear for a few minutes now, but there are more clouds coming slowly--a long way off--and if they reach her we shall have to wait some minutes for them to pass."

A hurried search for convenient-sized stones was made; and then, silence, while they wrote down their wishes, using the top bar of the white gate as a writing-desk.

Pamela was the first to finish. At first Pamela had thought of wishing something for Michael; then she had thought of wishing that she could paint as well as Elizabeth Bagg; but "Michael and I are young," she had told herself, "and we've plenty of years to work in--but Elizabeth Bagg is getting old, and she's losing heart--I'll wish something for her.... I'll wish that somebody with influence, who can appreciate Elizabeth Bagg's artistic talent, may see some of her pictures, and that she may soon obtain the recognition which she well deserves." This was the gist of Pamela's wish. Wrapping a stone inside her paper, she threw it into the well--the moon's reflection scattering into a hundred shimmers and ripples as the stone splashed into the dark water and sank.

Isobel was the next ready. "I wish that I may do nothing to forfeit my fifty pounds," she had written, and her 'wish' followed quickly in the track of Pamela's.

For a wonder Caroline was finished third; but she knew when she started out exactly what she was going to wish. It concerned a little matter that had been fidgeting her careful soul for the last two days. "I wish I may find my silver thimble." Such was Caroline's wish, and it journeyed down after the other two just as Beryl finished writing hers.

Beryl had taken longer because she had had some difficulty in framing her wish, although when finished it seemed quite straightforward enough. "I wish I may never have to go back and live with Aunt Laura again," Beryl had written.

"Hurry up, and throw yours in, Beryl--the clouds are coming over," said Pamela, as she and Caroline and Isobel wandered a few paces away toward the chalk quarry. They were talking casually together when a slight scream from Beryl made them turn hastily round.

Beryl was running swiftly away from the well and toward the gate, which she pushed open, and ran into the lane.

The three other girls quickly followed and soon overtook her.

"Beryl! Wait a minute! Wait for us! What's the matter?" they called as they ran.

Beryl stopped running directly she heard their voices, and came to a standstill. She was looking very pale and scared as they came up to her.

"Whatever is the matter, old girl?" asked Pamela, taking hold of Beryl's arm.

"Oh, Pamela," she said, "I had just thrown my wish in the well, when the bush--the big overhanging bush close above--gave a rustle, and I heard some one laugh--such a horrid laugh--as if some one was hiding there, watching us. I--it gave me such a turn--I just ran--I didn't notice where you were--I just ran for the gate, to get away quickly."

Beryl seemed quite unnerved, and it was in vain that the others tried to persuade her that it was only her imagination.

"Shall we all go back together and make sure," suggested Pamela, not very enthusiastically it must be owned; but the others were certain it would not be wise to do this.

"It might be some horrible old tramp asleep in the hedge," said Isobel. "No. Let's get home--it's getting chilly--and we couldn't do any good really by going back, could we?"

So they all linked arms, and made their way home, where Martha was waiting up for them with a jug of hot milk.

*CHAPTER XII*

*IN WHICH ELIZABETH BAGG PAINTS A PICTURE
AND ISOBEL HEARS SOME PLEASANT NEWS*

Pamela's friendship with the Bagg family developed rapidly, and she became a frequent visitor to 'Alice Maud Villa'--much to Isobel's amazement; Isobel was more than amazed, she was scandalized.

"I simply can't understand Pamela," confided Isobel to Caroline. "What can she find in those Baggs? Even if Elizabeth Bagg can sketch a bit--it's no excuse; they're not the _sort_ of people Pamela should like to mix with. After all, Tom Bagg is only the village cabman! You can't get away from the fact, can you now? You know what I mean--they're not Pamela's sort somehow--I really am surprised at her taste."

But Isobel never said anything like this to Pamela. There was a certain air about Pamela at times that even Isobel respected, an air which, in the present case, made Isobel feel instinctively that Pamela would not brook any interference with her friendship with Elizabeth Bagg. So Isobel did not criticize openly Pamela's attitude toward the Baggs; but she criticized, and wondered, and was amazed in private to Caroline, whenever she thought fit.

There were two things that Isobel was trying to avoid. One was meeting old Silas Sluff in the garden, and the other was, asking any more questions of Beryl. To avoid old Silas was fairly easy, as he seemed to be trying to keep out of her sight as much as possible. To refrain from questioning Beryl was hard at first, but, although at times intensely curious about some incident or other in connection with Beryl, Isobel remembered that she must be a sport, and managed to keep her tongue quiet. It needed a great effort sometimes, but she succeeded, which must certainly be put down to Isobel's credit.

As far as Pamela was concerned Isobel's approval or disapproval of her friendship with the Baggs never worried her in the least. The matter never even crossed her mind. She spent many happy hours in Elizabeth Bagg's 'studio' watching Elizabeth paint, or finishing a sketch of her own, helped on by valuable hints and suggestions from Elizabeth, who greatly encouraged Pamela in her work; just as Pamela helped Elizabeth by her interest and genuine admiration for Elizabeth's painting.

Sometimes, when they were both at work in the studio, Pamela would begin to argue with Elizabeth over her attitude toward her brother Tom and his views on her painting.

"He's no right to call it 'wasting time,'" Pamela would protest. "He ought to be _made_ to understand what splendid work you are doing--valuable work, too, if I'm not mistaken."

"He doesn't care for pictures at all," Elizabeth would reply. "And it's no good crossing him--he's been very kind to me, you know, and has given me a roof over my head, and food to eat; I only have to buy my own clothes and my painting materials out of the money I earn by teaching; he provides everything else."

"But look what you do for him in return--cooking, washing, cleaning, and last, but by no means least, looking after his six children for him. How you manage to do it all I'm sure I don't know! And yet he doesn't even recognize that the work you love most is done up here--here in your studio--at all odd moments of the day. And he calls this 'wasting time.'" Pamela gave a short laugh. "Oh, it makes me so indignant," she said.

But her arguments were always in vain. Elizabeth would never make the smallest attempt toward making her brother respect her art, but would continue to go on as usual after Pamela had left, smiling quietly to herself at Pamela's enthusiasm and indignation.

"She is very young," Elizabeth would say to herself, and then give a sigh at the remembrance of when she herself was young and enthusiastic and indignant, when she had dreamed of doing great things in the world of art--long before her sister-in-law had died, and she had come to keep house for her brother. Then, when she was young, it had been an invalid mother who had claimed all her attention, so that she had never had time nor opportunities to make friends with young people of her own age--young people who had interests in common with herself. She had painted and drawn in her spare time, and had even had a couple of terms at an art school, in the days before her mother had become a helpless invalid. Then, when her mother had died, it had been Elizabeth's intention to take a room in London by herself and set resolutely to work to earn a living by her painting; but before this plan could be put into execution news came that her aunt (Alice Maud) had met with an accident, and Elizabeth was asked to go and nurse her. She went. Elizabeth planned many things during her life, but other people always seemed to step in and alter the plans--and Elizabeth allowed them to be altered, and drifted into the new plans with little or no resistance. That was Elizabeth's chief failing, her inability to strike out for herself. As far as art was concerned it was a loss, but her relatives had certainly gained in having so willing and conscientious a worker to look after them in their illnesses. For it was always somebody who was ill that sent for Elizabeth. First, her mother, then her aunt, and finally, just when her thoughts were once again free to turn toward the room in London, her sister-in-law had begged her to come and look after her house and the children as she was taken dangerously ill. So Elizabeth came. And when her sister-in-law died she could not find it in her heart to refuse her brother Tom's request to stay with him and look after his six little motherless children.

Elizabeth used sometimes to dream about the wonderful room she had meant to have in London--the room where she liked to imagine that she would have painted pictures that would have brought her fame and wealth. As she grew older she began to doubt whether she ever would have painted pictures good enough or marketable enough even to pay for the rent of the room. She began to regret her want of initiative--after she had met Pamela. She regretted that she had all along allowed her own affairs to drift. Why had she always allowed others to rule her life, she wondered. She had worked hard at her pictures--and then done nothing with them when they were finished. There were scores of them packed one on top of the other on the shelves of a big cupboard in her studio.

Having got permission to look through this pile of pictures one day, Pamela discovered that Elizabeth was decidedly clever at portrait painting; the likenesses of one or two of the village folk, whom Pamela knew by sight, and of Tom Bagg, and of several of the little Baggs, were very well done indeed; and she asked Elizabeth why she did not do more of this kind of work.

"I haven't done any portraits for a long time," was all that Elizabeth replied. "I don't know why."

The discovery of this branch of Elizabeth's skill set Pamela thinking. Apart from his annoying indifference to his sister's talent Tom Bagg was a genial, good-natured, and quite likeable man, Pamela thought. She liked him more particularly after discovering him one evening sitting by the fire in his living-room, smoking, and telling a long fairy story to his children, who were gathered around him listening, enthralled. It was only occasionally that Daddy could be got to tell them a story; but when he chose he could tell a very good story indeed. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why he was so popular at the 'Blue Boar.' Ensconced in a chimney-corner seat in the old-fashioned parlour of the 'Blue Boar,' he would puff away at his pipe, and yarn to a few bosom friends and occasional strangers for an hour at a stretch, much to the amusement of his audience. At home he was just as popular as a story-teller, and the children would listen enchanted to his tales of adventure, of fairies, and of pirates--and when he came to the humorous parts, where he always stopped to chuckle and shake before he told them the joke, the children could hardly contain their impatience, and while he paused aggravatingly to take a pull at his pipe and chuckle again, they would shower eager questions upon him, giving him no peace until he resumed the tale.

Elizabeth Bagg, when she was not upstairs in her studio, would sit in a corner by the fire on these occasions, mending stockings by firelight, and listening to the story, glancing up now and then at the cheerful, ruddy face of the teller, and at the children sitting on the hearth-rug, on the arms of his chair, and on his knees, all listening intently. The story-telling was always done by firelight; directly the gas was lit, it was supper and bedtime.

Pamela was present at more than one of these story-telling evenings. Old Tom Bagg was used to talking before strangers and new-comers, and her presence made no difference to him. He was always polite, and pleased to see Pamela, and never seemed outwardly surprised at her friendship with Elizabeth, though sometimes he would scratch the bald spot on his head and wonder to himself.

The first time Pamela saw the group in the firelit room listening to the story-telling she was struck with an idea, which she afterward communicated to Elizabeth.

"It would make a simply ripping picture--and you're so good at likenesses--I wonder you don't do it," she urged.

And, after a while, Elizabeth Bagg did do it. She set to work up in her studio, and began on a picture of Tom Bagg sitting in a firelit room telling a story to the children around him.

"Get the expression on his face when he's chuckling," said Pamela.

So Elizabeth watched him and caught the chuckling expression and transmitted it to her picture.

"_Absolutely_," was the delighted Pamela's verdict when she saw it; and her enthusiasm roused Elizabeth to put her best work into the painting, although she had no future plans for it when it was finished. Possibly it would have drifted finally into the cupboard in her studio. Elizabeth, with her tiresome lack of initiative, would have taken no further trouble with the picture after it was done.

But Pamela had a plan for the firelight picture which she did not mention to Elizabeth Bagg, but waited eagerly for the completion of the painting.

Meanwhile Isobel, unable to get Pamela or Beryl to join in having dancing-lessons with her, had at length, much to her own surprise, prevailed on Caroline to come to Madame Clarence's with her twice a week. As Caroline sat over her sewing so much, and had very little exercise, these visits to the Dancing Academy probably did her a great deal of good. Not that she enjoyed dancing; but being persuaded that it was good for her health, she took her lessons regularly and solemnly, just as she would have taken medicine twice daily after meals had she thought she should do so. Although Isobel (to use her own expression) was not 'frightfully keen' on Caroline, yet she found her useful in yet another way besides being a companion to travel with to and from Inchmoor.

When Isobel heard that Sir Henry and Lady Prior and family had returned to the Manor House, she lived for a few days in a state of pleasurable expectation, from which state she was presently transported into one of intense joy. For she discovered that the Manor House Priors actually were connected with her--though very distantly, it must be confessed.

And Caroline was the medium through whom she learnt this eventful piece of news.

Finding that Caroline was the only one of the girls likely to get into immediate touch with Lady Prior, through the bazaar work-party meetings which Caroline had begun to attend, Isobel asked her if she would take the first opportunity of speaking to Lady Prior, and informing her that Isobel Prior, who was staying at Chequertrees, would have liked beyond anything to help at the bazaar only she was afraid she was restricted from doing so by the instructions of Miss Crabingway, who had said that none of the girls staying at Chequertrees were to visit or be visited by any relations whatsoever; and Isobel thought it possible that she might be a relation of Lady Prior's. Of course, Isobel impressed upon Caroline that she was to be sure to say that Miss Crabingway did not know that this restriction of hers might apply in any way to Lady Prior, or she would assuredly not have made such a rule. Then Isobel asked Caroline to explain all about Miss Crabingway's whim, and to make matters quite clear to her ladyship. She also wrote down for Caroline all the facts about the Prior family-tree that she knew, giving her father's full name, and age, and profession, and the names of his various brothers, cousins, uncles, and so on.

All this Caroline faithfully related to Lady Prior in due course, and came back from her first interview with the news that Lady Prior was going to consult Sir Henry about it, and would tell Caroline what he said at the next meeting, as she did not know any of the Christian names of the gentlemen Caroline had mentioned, but was quite amused at Miss Crabingway's queer instructions.

Isobel was somewhat chilled by this news, and wondered to herself whether the 'dowdy-looking' Caroline had prejudiced her case in Lady Prior's eyes.

"Of course, never having seen me she may think I'm something of the same class as the friend I choose to act as my deputy," thought Isobel to herself, and eyed the unconscious Caroline with secret disfavour.

However, Caroline returned from the next bazaar meeting with better news. Sir Henry had informed Lady Prior that Mr Gerald Prior of Lancaster Gate and Ibstone House, Lower Marling, was a third cousin of his, whom he had never seen, though he had heard of him. This put fresh heart into Isobel, and she went to church the following Sunday to see what the Priors looked like--though she took care to keep a safe distance in case any unforeseen accident should happen, and she should meet them. She wondered what the mater would do under the circumstances. But, contemplating that when the six months elapsed she would be free to go and visit these new-found relatives, and be fifty pounds the richer for the waiting, she decided that it was wiser to wait, especially as Lady Prior now knew the circumstances and would understand.

So she gazed on the Prior pew from a distance, and noted with pride the rich and fashionable clothes its occupants wore, and the respect the family seemed to awaken in the other members of the congregation.

Though Isobel did not want to own it, even to herself, she was somewhat disappointed in the facial appearance of her father's third cousin and his family. Sir Henry himself was small and pompous, with sandy hair and moustache, and his broad, pinkish face was plentifully besprinkled with freckles; he wore glasses which were rather troublesome to keep on the flat bridge of his wide, short nose. His eyebrows were invisible from a distance, but his gold watch-chain and the diamond in the gold ring on the little finger of his right hand sparkled and glistened in the sunshine that streamed through the stained-glass windows.

Lady Prior was well preserved and had evidently been pretty in her youth, but now she was inclined to be plump, and had developed a double-chin, and a florid complexion; her mouth was too small for the rest of her features, making her nose look too prominent; her eyes were large and good. The two daughters of the house next claimed Isobel's attention; they were upright, pleasant-looking girls with their mother's features, but their father's colouring--freckles included. Nevertheless there was a certain air about them which Isobel could find no more fitting term for than 'distinguished.' She had learnt from Caroline that there was also a son of the house, but he was not present that morning in church.

Isobel gazed from afar, and then went home to Chequertrees feeling rather out of humour with everything and everybody because of the 'silly whim' of Miss Crabingway's which had cut her off from these desirable relations.

When the girls had almost completed the third month of their stay at Chequertrees Martha reminded them that they would possibly receive a communication from Mr Joseph Sigglesthorne shortly, with whom Miss Crabingway had left instructions concerning the replenishing of the funds of the household. Supplies were running out, Martha said, and she hoped they would hear promptly.

But several days went by and no word came from Mr Sigglesthorne (for the very good reason that he had forgotten all about them).

Then one morning a letter posted in Scotland arrived from Miss Emily Crabingway. It was very brief, and merely instructed Pamela, Beryl, Isobel, and Caroline to go up to London with Martha on the day following the receipt of letter, and deliver the envelope which was enclosed to Mr Joseph Sigglesthorne at his rooms in Fig Tree Court, Temple, E.C.

"What can this mean?" said Pamela, after she had read the letter to Martha.

Martha smiled and shook her head. "Unless it is that Miss Crabingway knows what a forgetful gentleman Mr Sigglesthorne is, and wants to give him a shock by sending you all to remind him," she suggested.

It may as well be stated here that this was not Martha's own idea, but one communicated to her in a recent note from Miss Crabingway.

As this would be the first journey to town that the girls had made since they came to Barrowfield, they were rather excited and pleased, and set about making plans for the morrow's journey in high good spirits; they recalled for each other's benefit their previous meeting with Mr Sigglesthorne. It was decided to lock up the house, as Ellen said rather than stay at home alone all day she would go and visit some friends in the village, who had been begging her to come and see them for a long time, and would meet their train at the station on their return. This matter being satisfactorily arranged, and time-tables consulted, clothes overlooked and holes in gloves mended, the four girls ended the day with another dance in the drawing-room to celebrate their 'one day's release' from Barrowfield, as Isobel put it.

The next day was fine and warm, though a few mackerel clouds high in the sky made it difficult to dissuade Caroline from putting on her goloshes and taking an umbrella. Poor Caroline, her little fads were always being laughed at by the other three! But she took all their remarks very good-naturedly as a rule. Her umbrella she did eventually abandon, reluctantly, but she took a small canvas bag with her, which she said contained her purse and handkerchief, and some knitting to do in the train. But there was more in it than these things; the bulge at the side of the bag was a very tightly-rolled, light-weight mackintosh, and the bulge at the bottom was the much-ridiculed goloshes. Caroline did not explain the bulges, and the girls were too busy with their own affairs by the time she came downstairs with her bag to bother to tease her any more.

And so the four girls and Martha set out to visit Mr Joseph Sigglesthorne.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*MR JOSEPH SIGGLESTHORNE FORGETS THE DATE*