## The Project Gutenberg eBook of Neesby Court

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Title: Neesby Court

or, Our pretty cousin

Author: Ethel S. Cann

Release date: October 5, 2025 [eBook #76994]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1898

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEESBY COURT ***

See p. 31.

#
NEESBY COURT;

OR,

OUR PRETTY COUSIN.

BY

ETHEL S. CANN.

LONDON:
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY,
56 PATERNOSTER ROW; AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I. THE NEW TENANTS

II. "TRIS" COMES TO SEE US

III. MORE VISITORS

IV. THE BOY WHO WAS NEVER FRIGHTENED

V. THE BIRTHDAY PARTY

VI. A WONDERFUL STORY

NEESBY COURT;

or,

OUR PRETTY COUSIN.

### CHAPTER I.
THE NEW TENANTS.

My name is Addie Dixon. I have one brother and two sisters. I am going to tell you of something that happened more than five years ago, when Percy was thirteen, I was eleven, Milly was nine, and Maud was only four.

Father is a doctor, and we live in a pretty town, called Neesby. Ours is a funny old-fashioned house, with windows opening outwards. The front of the house is covered with ivy and roses, and the back with Virginia creeper, in the summer, and nothing at all in the winter. We have two servants: Masters, who drives father's "kerridge," as he calls it; and Martha. A girl comes in to help, mornings. Martha says she only helps backwards, and makes more work than she does; but then Martha does not always mean what she says.

We have, or rather had, the dearest little dog you ever saw. He is browny, blacky-grey, with a white spot on his tail, and one on one ear. Father said he was very ugly, but we thought him splendid. We found him one day when we were out for a walk with mother; we brought him home with us. He was a tiny thing then, very thin, and could hardly walk; but we nursed him, and gave him bread and milk and scraps of meat, and he soon grew fat.

Father said at first he wouldn't let us keep him, but mother said, "He can stay in the stable; and he would do nicely for a playmate for the children." When mother really wants to do anything, or have anything, father generally lets her, as he is so fond of her; so he let us keep Tuts (that is his name), and he slept in the stable, and followed us everywhere.

Nearly half a mile from our home is a large house called Neesby Court. It stands in a beautiful park, with large iron gates at the entrance, and a wide carriage drive winding in and out between tall trees, right up to the door.

The Court, and nearly all the lower part of the town, belonged for hundreds of years (so Martha says) to the Neesby family. They were very rich at one time, but the old squire, Sir John, was a very bad man, Martha says; he used to spend his money in gambling and horse-racing and many other wicked ways; and to pay his debts, he had to sell all his houses and lands, one by one, until only the old Court was left.

Poor Lady Neesby died of a broken heart, and then the Court was shut up, the great gates locked, and the whole place deserted. Master Guy, the only son, was sent to a boarding-school; Sir John went away for many years. People had begun to think he was never coming back, when one day the sudden news came that he was ill, and was travelling slowly towards his old home to spend his last days. It was a cold, wet, stormy day in March when he arrived; the day after he came he sent for father, as he felt much worse, and a fortnight later he died.

When the funeral was over, Sir Guy and the lawyers went over poor Sir John's papers and bills, and found there was so much money owing, that if Sir Guy paid it all, he would be a very poor man. However, he gave up all he had, and went away to London, where he began to work for his living as a hard-working secretary to a Member of Parliament. A large board was placed at the entrance gates showing that the Court was to be let; but no one seemed to care to live there, until a gentleman called Grey took it for three years, but died before he had been there one.

After that, nobody would rent it, though several gentlemen came to look at it. Of course most of this happened before I was born; but Martha told me heaps of stories about the Neesbys of olden times, when gentlemen wore long curls, and ladies rode in chairs, carried by their servants. Many wet afternoons we have spent, sitting in a row round her, listening, open-eyed and open-mouthed, to the wonderful tales she knew, most of which she had heard from her mother, who had been Sir Guy's nurse, when he was a baby.

Now to begin the proper story.

It was a lovely afternoon in the early part of May—Friday, I remember—we were all sitting at tea. Milly was fond of gardening, and had a little plot at the back of the house, where she had some radishes growing. We had some that afternoon for tea, for the first time that year. Percy said they were tough, but that must have been only to tease, for he ate enough of them.

Percy went to the Neesby Grammar School, and it was his habit to tell us any news he picked up during the day, when he came home. We had got about half-way through tea when he burst out, with his mouth full of cake, "I say! Neesby Court is let, and"—

"You should not speak with your mouth full, my son," said mother; so we had to wait patiently until the cake had "walked down the long, red lane," as Maud says. He began again, more quietly—

"The Court is let to a lady with one little girl." We all began to talk at once, and ask questions. "Have you seen either of them? what is the lady like? how is the little girl dressed? how old is she?" and so on.

"Children, children, do be quiet," said mother gently, "and Percy will tell you all he knows."

"I don't know anything at all about them," said he, "except that they've come by this afternoon's train from London; and that a good spring clean has been going on up at the Court for a week past. It is let furnished, I hear."

"I did not know anything of it," remarked father.

"I saw that the notice-board was gone when I passed on Monday, but I thought that it had perhaps been blown down," said mother.

All that evening we were in a state of wondering curiosity. Who and what these new arrivals were; their name; where they had come from; how long they were likely to stay. In guessing answers to these and other questions of the same kind, we spent the time until Martha came calling, "Children, children, 'tis time for you to come in to bed," and we left the garden and went in to say good-night to father and mother, who were sitting together in the parlour, laughing over something father was reading aloud.

On Saturdays we had holiday all day. On other days Miss Cole used to come up from Neesby to give us lessons, from ten to half-past twelve in the mornings, and from two to three in the afternoons. Then we had to practise, and learn our lessons for the next day, and then we played together or went for walks, or sometimes, for a great treat, for a drive with father. Maud only came into the schoolroom in the mornings, and would just learn her letters and how to count. Maud was much younger than Milly, as a little brother who came in between died when he was six months old. We often go to see his grave.

The morning after we knew the Court was let, Milly and I and Tuts went, as usual, into the town, with little slips of paper for the different shopkeepers, telling them what things to send up. At the grocer's we always used to buy a pennyworth of hard biscuits for Tuts. He knew when Saturday came, and when we got to the shop would prick up his ears, and wait so patiently until he heard the paper-bag begin to rustle; then he would run over to the tin, and begin sniffing round it, and the grocer would give him half a biscuit to keep him quiet.

Mrs. Brown, the butcher's wife, who used to sit in a kind of glass-case, with a hole on one side through which she passed out the money and bills, would call out when she saw us, "Aw! there's the little Miss Dixons. How's your Ma, my dears, and your dear Pa?" We used to feel rather disgusted; we don't like anyone to call father and mother "Pa" and "Ma;" it sounds so silly to us.

Although we stayed in the town a good deal longer than usual that morning, we neither saw nor heard of anybody or anything from Neesby Court. When we got home, just about dinner-time, father had not returned from his rounds; but we did not wait for him, as sometimes he would be quite an hour late, and we were always hungry when meal-times came. Mother said she would take us for a lovely, long walk by and by, if we were good and did not run about in the garden too much. We were delighted to hear that, as we dearly liked going for walks with mother.

We had finished dinner, and Martha was clearing the table when father came in. He looked rather queer, I thought, as though he had what Martha calls "the blue grumps." He came into the dining-room and looked round. "Where's mother, children? Oh, there you are, love! Whew!" throwing himself into a chair, "it is hot to-day, very." Mother bent over him quite anxiously, with a glass of iced water in her hand. "What is the matter, dear? you are looking quite pale. Don't you feel well?"

"Oh, I'm feeling quite well, thanks. It's too hot for comfort. Children, run out a bit; don't go in the sun. I want to talk to mother. Percy, put on your hat and run down to Dr. Lang's with this paper." Dr. Lang was another doctor, living in Neesby; he and father were great friends.

We stayed in the garden, playing with Tuts, for such a long time, thinking that mother would surely soon call us to get ready for our walk. Getting tired of sitting under the trees, we walked round to the side of the house, just in time to see Tom, father's errand-boy, coming out of the surgery with two bottles of medicine in his hand.

"Father has finished his talk with mother, then," said Milly joyfully; "let's go and see if we can find her." She wasn't to be found; we looked in the dining-room, parlour, and drawing-room. We asked Martha, who was in the scullery, "up to her ears in work," as she said, if she knew where mother was. "I fancy she's gone up in her bedroom to lie down. Don't you go disturbing of her, now. She looked very whitish and queer-like when I took in your father's tart; and he said he didn't want none, and he han't eat much else either. Now, run along like dears, and not bide here hinderin' me."

We went into the quiet parlour. (When I say "we," I generally mean Milly and myself, as Maud ran about anywhere.) How quiet it was! How strange the house was without mother. Was she ill? What was the matter with her? Had father's "talk" caused her to look "whitish and queer-like," and go to her own room? We didn't know.

Father came in to tea; he spoke quite sharply to Maud, who was singing "Sing a Song of Sixpence" quietly to herself, telling her to be quiet. Maud was hushed in a minute; it was very seldom father spoke like that.

"Is mother ill?" I asked falteringly.

"She isn't very well, Addie. Be a good girl, and see that the little ones don't make too much noise."

The next two hours were very dull, and we were very glad, for once, when bedtime came. We went to say good-night to mother, who was lying on a couch near the window in her own room; she was looking very pale, and as though she had been crying. "Is you very bad?" asked Maud in a loud whisper. "Not very, darling. I shall be better in the morning. Don't cry, Milly. Good-night, dearies;" and she kissed us all.

Milly was a sympathetic little soul, and was sobbing by the time we got outside the door, and Maud was crying for company. I myself was just thinking I might start, when we heard father's cheery voice, asking us what we were watering the stair carpet for. He called us all babies, told us one of his nice tales, and sent us off to bed in good spirits. You see, we were so very fond of mother that we couldn't bear to think she was suffering the least pain.

The next morning mother was well enough to come down to breakfast, but said she did not feel equal to going to church. The rest of us started in good time, leaving her at home to rest and get well. The pew belonging to the Neesby family was just opposite ours; we had not been in church long when there came a little rustle in the aisle, and a lady and a little girl walked into the Court pew.

We hardly dared to lift our eyes from the patent leather toes of our best shoes: Milly's face was very red; father was looking very sternly at some badly behaving boys; Percy was trying to button one of his gloves; Maud was staring intently at the organ. The organ always was a strange thing to Maud: she couldn't understand how the music came out; she always called the pipes "sticks" until Dr. Lang one day told her they were pipes. "Where do the smoke go?" she asked then.

At last I screwed up my courage and looked across to the pew, and then— I pinched Milly so hard that her face grew three times redder, and the tears came into her eyes.

"Oh, Addie, how unkind of you," she whispered.

"Look!" I said softly; "isn't she beautiful?" Then she looked, and could hardly keep her eyes from that pew all the morning, and neither could I. The lady was more beautiful than anybody I had ever seen. Not beautiful in a sweet, lovely way, like our mother, but in a grand, proud style. She looked and moved like a queen; but I am sure I could never have put my arms round her neck or kissed her. I thought she must have forgotten the way to smile, and cry too. Her dress was plain, but beautiful, like herself.

The little girl was very pretty: she had long golden curls, reaching nearly to her waist; large grey eyes; and a lovely, rather sad, little face. She was dressed in a cream soft silk frock, and a white straw hat trimmed with ribbon, and a long white feather.

I wished Milly and I had got feathers then; but we had only ribbon, as mother did not like children to be dressed like young ladies. Our dresses were white muslin; I had always thought them very pretty, but now I did wish we had a fairy godmother to turn them into silk.

The pretty young lady looked at me once while I was staring at her; her face instantly became as red as Milly's had been before, and I don't think she looked up again during the whole service, but kept her eyes fixed on the floor.

As she passed us with her mother, on her way to the carriage which was waiting, we noticed that she had on white stockings and white kid shoes. Masters was waiting with the victoria to take father on his rounds; we had to walk home alone. Mother was in the parlour, sitting in her own particular chair, and of course we at once began to tell her all we knew of the lady with the beautiful face, and her little girl. In the middle of our excited story Percy broke in—

"Look here, you girls! just go on upstairs and take off your things. You will make mother's head ache with all your chatter;" and indeed she was looking pale again; so we went away and told our tale to Martha, who never had headaches, and who, naturally, was very interested in all we could tell her of the people who were going to live at Neesby Court.

### CHAPTER II.
"TRIS" COMES TO SEE US.

When Miss Cole came up the next day, she told us that the name of the lady at Neesby Court was Townley,—Miss Townley,—and that the little girl was her niece, not her daughter, as we had supposed.

When we told mother, she said she had known it all along; but she didn't seem to care much about talking about them, nor to hear much of them, so we made up stories about them between ourselves, giving the little girl the fanciful name of Tris.

We had picked up a leaf from a book, one day just before, and had seen Tris there, and we thought at that time it was the dearest name in the world. We used to see her going for walks with her governess, who lived at the Court, and for drives with her aunt, and we wondered if her father and mother were dead, or where they were.

Miss Townley had been in Neesby four or five weeks when Percy asked mother one day if we couldn't have a picnic out on Moultby Common, on the following Saturday. Moultby was a good-sized market town about ten miles from Neesby, and the Common was about half-way between the two places, and a very jolly picnic ground. Whenever we went there, we used to borrow a donkey-cart of an old woman, who sold vegetables and fruit. Her donkey was a very quiet creature, called Ned. He would sometimes stand quite still for laziness; and as he had never been known to fall, father used to let Milly and me drive him; so you may think how excited we were when mother said we might go for a picnic, if we would promise to be good.

On Saturday morning, about ten o'clock, Grannie Smith's donkey-cart arrived; Milly, Maud, Percy, myself, and several baskets of eatables, started at once, after mother had settled that Percy was to drive as far as a certain turning in the road; then I might take the reins and drive to a pond of water, where Ned must stop to drink; and Milly might drive the rest of the way. Mother and father would drive out and join us in the evening.

Miss Cole was going with us: she was walking on in front; for though she didn't mind riding in the donkey-cart when nobody could see her, she didn't care to ride through the town. As we passed the gates of Neesby Court a carriage was just coming out. In it were seated Miss Townley and her niece. "Tris" turned to look at us as we, a happy, laughing party, passed. Her aunt spoke quite crossly to her, and told her to sit still and not turn round; which poor "Tris" did, with a very red face.

"How mean of Miss Townley," broke out Milly, almost before the carriage had got beyond hearing distance. "I daresay the poor little thing was wishing she had some brothers and sisters to play with her. I don't like that Miss Townley, but I should like to make friends with 'Tris.'"

"Tris!" scornfully said Percy; "you won't be able to make friends with 'Tris,' as you call her, because she's never out without her governess, and that dear creature looks as cross as two sticks."

Here we overtook Miss Cole, and we soon forgot both "Tris" and her troubles in deciding what games we should play. We had a splendid time. We played every game we knew; we ate every particle of food we brought with us; and were very glad when father and mother came. We sat down on the grass by father, and he told us one of his nice tales. This one was about a man who sold his poor old horse to a company of gipsies for ten pounds, and went to a fair next day to buy a new one.

There he saw a nice one that quite took his fancy, with two white legs, and a white streak down the middle of his face; so he bought him for twenty pounds. When he got home he called to his wife to come and see this fine new horse. Directly she saw him the old woman cried out, "Why, Sam! 'tis our own old horse come back;" and so it was. The gipsies had painted his face and two of his legs, so that the old man did not know his horse; and he paid twenty pounds for the same one that he had sold the day before for ten pounds.

Miss Cole drove home in the victoria with father and mother; we went along in the donkey-cart. Percy drove all the way. Maud fell asleep in the bottom of the cart; Milly and I were too tired even to talk. We met "Tris" again, and she looked at us in her sad little way. She was with her governess this time; so Milly and I nodded to her; she smiled back and looked so pleased.

Two or three days later, Milly and Maud and I were playing in the garden. Wo were putting Tuts into a doll's dress, and he was kicking and trying to bite it off. At last, after a good deal of struggling and laughter, we got the dress on, tied a bonnet on his head, and Maud took one paw and I took the other, and we went to call on Milly, who was keeping house under a tree near the gate.

As we walked on I heard a soft laugh, and looking up I saw "Tris" looking in at us. She coloured up when she saw me, and said, "I beg your pardon, but your dog looked so funny I couldn't help watching you."

Milly jumped up from her seat under the tree, came over, and opened the gate. "Good-afternoon," she said in her quaint, old-fashioned way; "will you come in?" "Tris" looked as though she would like to, but did not know if she might. She was with one of the maid-servants, not her governess. The girl said—

"If you would like to stop here while I do my errands, I will call for you as I come back." So then "Tris" came into the garden and tried to pat Tuts' head, under the bonnet.

"What a dear little dog! What is he called?" she asked shyly.

"His name's Tuts," said Maud, untying the bonnet-strings.

"Tris" looked up at me. "Will you tell me your names? I don't know them."

"My name is Adelaide Jane, but I'm always called Addie. Don't you think Jane is very ugly?"

"But then," she answered smiling, "Adelaide is very pretty."

"Do you think so?" I said. "This is our baby, Helen Maud. Helen is after mother; we always call her Maud."

Milly introduced herself. "I'm Milly, or rather, Millicent Mary. Mary is after my grandmother. What is your name?"

"I'm called after my grandmother too. Her name was Mary. I'm Eleanor Mary."

"Eleanor!" said Milly, with a long breath; "oh—that is a pretty name!"

After this we chatted away nicely; we took Eleanor round to see the chickens, and let her peep at Percy's bicycle through the greenhouse door. "Uncle Dick—that's father's brother; he's a clergyman—gave that one to Percy," explained Milly. "Percy's very proud of it; he can ride nicely. He takes care of it himself." Milly showed our visitor her garden, where mustard and cress had taken the place of radishes.

Eleanor was delighted with all she saw; and we, in turn, were delighted with her. She was so charming and sweet, and did not give herself any airs, to make us know she was richer than we were. As we were passing the hall door, mother was just coming out; she started when she saw Eleanor, and turned first red, then white.

"This is mother, Eleanor," I said; "mother, this is Eleanor Townley, and she is more than twelve."

Mother smiled and said, "How do you do, dear," and bent down and kissed Eleanor. I saw the tears in Eleanor's eyes; she told us, when mother had gone, that her mother had died when she was a baby, just able to walk, and her father, who was a soldier, died when she was seven,—"now," she said sadly, "I've only Aunt Esther left."

"Haven't you any other aunts, or an uncle, or some cousins, or somebody?" I asked.

"I don't think I have any cousins or uncles, but I can just remember that father used to tell me about Aunt Nelly; but I think she is dead now, too. Once I asked Aunt Esther about her, but she was very angry and told me never to mention her again. Father said he was very fond of her, and if he had known where she lived he would have sent me to her, and not to Aunt Esther. I wish I knew if she were really dead; I do so want somebody to love me. Aunt Esther doesn't seem to have much love for anyone."

We kissed her and comforted her, telling her we would always love her, and that she must come down and see us whenever she could; we would always be pleased to see her. She thanked us very much, and said she would, if her aunt would let her. By that time the maid had finished her errands and was waiting; so Eleanor kissed us good-bye and went away, waving her hand to us as she turned the corner.

Mother was very interested in all we told her of Eleanor's father and mother; she seemed very much touched at that part about her Aunt Nelly, and almost cried: but father's voice was heard at just the right minute, telling us to make haste and get ready, and he would take us for a long drive.

### CHAPTER III.
MORE VISITORS.

Eleanor did not come to see us again. I suppose her aunt wouldn't let her even speak to us, as, when we met her in the lanes or in the town, she always passed us with a nod and a smile.

One Saturday afternoon Martha went to see her mother, who was suffering from rheumatism, and, being holiday, mother let Milly and me go with her. Maud stayed at home, as it was too far for her to walk.

We just went into the cottage whore Nurse Giles, Martha's mother, lived, for a few minutes, and then Milly and I went outside to wait. We started running races with Tuts; I got ever so far ahead of Milly, and, turning a corner quickly, almost ran into somebody coming the other way. My heart nearly jumped into my mouth when I saw it was Miss Townley. My hat was hanging behind by the elastic; my hair was falling over my face; and, on the whole, I looked "as ragged as a robin," as Martha says.

"I—I—I beg your pardon," I gasped panting, and wishing I were less untidy.

"I was wondering what wild beast was coming when I heard you scampering down the lane," she said, with a little smile. "Who are you, my dear?"

"I am Adelaide Dixon," I said, hoping I was looking better than I had thought.

"Adelaide Dixon," she repeated slowly. "Do you know how much you are like your mother?"

"Like mother? Do you know mother?" I asked in surprise.

Miss Townley looked rather confused. "I—I used to," she said at last.

"She isn't so bad as I thought," I said to myself. "I'll ask her about Eleanor." Aloud I said—

"Will you let Eleanor come down and see us sometimes, Miss Townley? I think she is lonely up at the Court by herself."

"Thank you, Adelaide. I will see about it. Good-afternoon;" and she passed down the lane like a queen. Just after, Milly came running up; I told her about my meeting with Miss Townley, and as we were going home she said—

"I am going to ask mother if she will let me ask Eleanor to my birthday party." Milly's birthday was in July; we always had a party then. That evening, after Maud had gone to bed, and Martha was bathing Milly upstairs, I told mother what I had said to Miss Townley. Father had gone to see a patient, Percy was learning his lessons in the school-room, so mother and I had the parlour to ourselves. "Did you ever know Miss Townley, mother?" I asked when I had finished.

"Yes, dear," she answered, "but it was a long time ago; when I was very young. I have not spoken to her for many years. The last time was when Percy was a baby, a few weeks old;" and I felt a tear splash down on my hand.

"Don't cry, mother dear," I whispered, "or father will be vexed with me for saying anything about Miss Townley, for it always grieves you."

The next day Milly asked mother if she would mind her asking Eleanor to her birthday party. Mother said she would ask father and see what he said.

That week mother received a letter from an old school friend of hers, who had been living in India for some years, saying that she and her two children had just arrived in England, and would be pleased to pay mother a visit, if she could find room for them. Mother wrote to her at once, begging her to come directly. Her name was Mrs. Emson. Mother fancied her two children were boys, but did not know how old they were.

"Can't bear boys about," grumbled Martha, "girls is bad enough, plenty, but boys, ugh!—they pull and drag everything to pieces."

In the afternoon we went with Miss Cole to pick some elder-flowers. Martha had a recipe for preparing them to keep and make poultices of. I was up in a tree that reached rather far out over the road, pulling down large bunches of flowers, when Miss Townley drove by with a lady from Moultby. As the carriage passed below, I somehow lost hold of my armful of flowers, and they fell right into the carriage.

Miss Townley looked up quickly and saw me. She did not seem at all put out, but her friend looked very angry. I scrambled down; Milly's first words were—

"However did you manage to do that, Addie?"

"I couldn't help it; they just slipped," said I.

"Well, Addie," said Miss Cole, "you should not climb. I told you some accident would happen."

"What do you think Miss Townley said?" said Milly. "The lady who was with her said, 'What a rude child! I really believe she did it purposely;' and Miss Townley said, 'I shouldn't wonder at all. It could hardly have been an accident.'"

At that, like a baby, I sat down by the side of the hedge and cried. Miss Cole told me not to make my eyes red and my face dirty with crying, but to hurry home and write a note to Miss Townley, telling her it was an accident, and how sorry I was. This I did, and was much comforted when Miss Townley sent back a basket of fruit by Masters, who had taken the note; and went to bed happy, thinking there wasn't a nicer lady in the world, except, of course, mother.

Mrs. Emson arrived on the following Monday. One of her children was a boy, Jim; the other was a girl, whose name was Geraldine, but who was known by the queer-sounding one of Jerry. She was a very odd girl; I could hardly understand her. Jim was very demure and quiet.

"He's a very nice, quiet little chap," said Martha; "he looks so meek and gentle, sitting down so nice with his mother. There's no noise or rattle with him, I can see." It was wet that evening, so we couldn't go out. We took Jerry and Jim up to the school-room to have some games. The moment we got inside the door, Jerry said, "This is a funny house! What queer windows! I don't think they are pretty at all." I wondered to myself if I should like her; I thought it was very rude to pass remarks.

### CHAPTER IV.
THE BOY WHO WAS NEVER FRIGHTENED.

July was in. Milly's birthday was on the 17th, which was Friday. We had planned to have games in the garden in the afternoon, tea on the grass under the trees, and games in the evening in the drawing-room, breaking up about nine, for mother didn't believe in late hours for children.

Jim and Jerry were going to stop for the party, and return to London the next day. Jim wasn't the nice quiet boy Martha had thought him, but dreadfully mischievous and tiresome. I heard father say to mother one day, he should be glad "when that young rascal had gone again, as he kept going into the surgery meddling."

Percy didn't like him at all, neither did we. Jerry wasn't so bad. She would say queer things, but she didn't really mean to be rude. Martha said she hadn't been properly brought up.

Before I go any further, I must tell of something that was puzzling me very much at this time. Three or four days after Mrs. Emson came, I was standing in the hall, just before dinner, when Mrs. Emson, looking very hot and flushed, came in.

"Have you been for a long walk, Mrs. Emson?" I said.

"It isn't the walk that has made me so hot," she replied, rather crossly; "I've been to see your aunt, and she has made me feel very angry. Really, she doesn't seem to have a particle of feeling. She's just like a statue. She's so proud too. Dear me, one would think"—and there Mrs. Emson stopped, out of breath.

"My aunt! did you say?" I asked. "I haven't any aunt in Neesby. I've only Aunt Alice, you know, and she is in Scotland—she lives there."

Mrs. Emson stared at me, actually stared, in surprise for a minute; then she said—

"What! do you mean to say—Hem! don't take any notice of what I say, love. I talk foolishly sometimes;" and she went upstairs quickly. I stood quite still, wondering what she meant. Whom did she mean by my aunt? I hadn't any aunt but Aunt Alice,—Uncle Dick's wife,—and she was up in her Scotch home; and although Mrs. Emson said she talked foolishly sometimes, she was talking sensibly then. I knew she was, because she looked so confused when I asked her what she meant.

"She's just like a statue." Who! what did she mean? I didn't care to ask her any more. I couldn't ask either father or mother when Mrs. Emson was in the room. Milly wouldn't know any more than I did. Would Martha know? Down to the kitchen I ran.

"Martha! Martha!" Martha, red in the face, was stirring the gravy over the fire.

"What is it now, Miss Addie? How you do frighten anybody, tearing in like that. What is it?"

"Martha," I said, more quietly; "have I got an aunt living in Neesby?"

"A what?" cried she. "Stand out of the way, my dear, or you will get a sput from the gravy."

"No, I won't. Have I got an aunt in Neesby?"

"An aunt?" she repeated; "I don't know what you mean, Miss Addie."

"Yes, you do, Martha. An aunt, like your Aunt Lizzie or my Aunt Alice, you know— Oh—oh—oh—." The "ohs" were because I had gone too near the fire, and the gravy had "sputted," as Martha had said it would.

"Child, don't make such a fuss! You ain't hurt. Where did it go? on your arm? goodness! I thought you was pretty near scalded to death."

"I'm not then," I retorted sharply; for Martha had made me feel I had cried out before I was hurt; "and, Martha, will you please answer my question?"

"Well, Miss Addie," lifting the saucepan off the fire and pouring the gravy into its dish; "'tis proper nonsense for you to go asking me such a thing as have you got an aunt living in Neesby, when you know as well as me, you haven't. What made you ask such a silly question?"

"It isn't a silly question. I wanted to know, that's all;" and I stalked out of the kitchen, with great dignity.

In the afternoon I was sitting in the parlour, with a book in my hand; but I wasn't reading. I was still thinking of Mrs. Emson's words. Suddenly father, who was reading the paper at the table, said, "What great question are you worrying about now, Addie?" I looked up and laughed a little, and, as we were alone in the room, I said, "It isn't a great question, father, but it is rather a puzzling one. Mrs. Emson said this morning she had been to see my aunt. I haven't an aunt here, have I? When I asked Mrs. Emson what she meant, she said she had been talking foolishly."

I looked across at father, but he was reading away as though he had not heard a word.

"Father," I said softly.

"Don't chatter, Addie. I'm busy reading;" so I was quiet, wondering on about this strange aunt, until I came to the conclusion that Mrs. Emson had made a mistake.

One week before the party, Milly wrote a dear little note to Eleanor (father having said she might) asking her to come on the 17th. By the next post Milly received the answer, written in the third person, saying that Miss Townley and her niece were obliged to Miss Millicent Dixon for her kind invitation, but the latter did not attend parties. It was something like that; I have forgotten how it went exactly.

Wasn't it horrid? Milly was put out when she received it. Mother seemed hurt; even I was forced to own that Miss Townley could be unkind if she liked.

Mrs. Emson screwed up her lips and said, "What did I tell you?" which made me look at her. I knew that she knew Miss Townley a little, for she had been up to the Court once or twice since she came; so I supposed Miss Townley had told her she did not intend Eleanor to come.

Meanwhile Jim had been tiring everybody by his mischievous tricks; always on the look-out, he never lost a chance to do someone an ill turn. We had many times been tripped up in the dusk by a piece of string tied across the path. The day before the party he was worse than ever. Martha said he was "enough to worrit the life right out of her;" and so he was.

In the first place, on Thursday morning, while Martha, rather later than usual, was having her breakfast, Master Jim came quietly into the kitchen and tied her into her chair by her apron-strings, and went out whistling. Martha, not knowing what Jim had done, called to Jane to "make haste up to Mrs. Day's after they eggs; I shall be waiting for 'em in another half-hour."

Off went Jane. Martha drank up her tea, pushed by her cup, tried to get up, but—found she couldn't. In an instant she knew what was the matter. She called Jim; she called mother; she called Tom and everybody else; but nobody could hear, as the door was shut and the kitchen seems quite away from the other parts of the house. The chair was a large one with a broad back, and do what she would, she couldn't possibly get out.

Presently Jim strolled by, and looking in at the window, said calmly, "Resting, Mrs. Martha? 'Tis very hot, to be sure, but I thought you said just now you had a lot of work to do?"

"Drat your imperence then," cried Martha, who forgot herself when she was excited; "you tied me in, you young rascal—you know you did."

"You will break a blood-vessel, I'm afraid, if you scream like that, Mrs. Martha. Your face is as red as Masters', now."

"Ugh! ugh!" groaned Martha. "Master Jim! come and untie my apron-strings this instant, or I'll know the reason why when I do get out."

"I'm not a lady's-maid, Mrs. Martha. You will have to wait until Jane comes in;" and so saying, the bad boy walked away, whistling for Tuts, who went bounding after him. Martha had to wait patiently, or impatiently, until Jane came, which was not too soon, as you may be sure.

After a good deal of laughing on Jane's side, and a good deal of scolding on Martha's, the strings were untied, and she was free. Jim had quite enough sense to keep away from the kitchen all the rest of the day.

His next prank was to tie Tuts to a nail in the wall, by a short chain, and the poor little thing nearly choked himself trying to get away. Tired of that pastime, he went into the garden, picked up all the snails he could find, and put them into Milly's hat, under the lining. When she went to put it on in the afternoon they all fell down, frightening poor Milly nearly out of her wits. For that, his mother shut him up in her bedroom for an hour; then, fearing what he might do if left to himself too long, she let him come down.

We were all sitting in the garden, eating ripe gooseberries, when Jim joined us. Milly was telling us how Miss Cole and she had seen a mouse in the old tool-house, and how frightened they had both been, thinking it was a rat.

"You'd have been just as frightened if you had known it was a mouse," laughed Percy.

"I daresay I should," admitted Miss Cole; "I don't like mice."

"Oh, I don't mind mice," said Jerry; "but I can't bear black beetles."

"I'll tell you what I don't like," said I. "Caterpillars."

"Don't you?" said Jim sympathetically; "I daresay you don't," he added, putting—ugh! such a fat one right on my arm. Oh! you should have heard me scream. Up I jumped; down fell my gooseberries; off flew Jim out of the way, coming back, however, as soon as order and quietness were again restored.

"That's just the way of you girls," sneered he, seating himself comfortably on the grass; "you scream at nothing, and are frightened at everything. I never yet saw anything that frightened me!"

"Don't boast, and don't tell stories, Jim!" advised Jerry. "Don't you remember—" but at that moment, luckily for Jim, Mrs. Ellison's voice, calling "Jerry, Jerry, I want you," sent her flying indoors.

Jim, Jerry out of the way, started telling us a wonderful tale of two robbers, who came into his room in the house in India, when everybody else was asleep, and were going to shoot him, when he jumped up and took down an old sword of his father's that was hanging on the wall, and would have cut off their heads, only they fell on their knees, begging him to forgive them, and gave him two beautiful bracelets as a peace-offering. "The worst of it is," he concluded, "I quite forgot those bracelets when we came home, and left them in India."

"I daresay you did," shouted Percy, who had climbed to the top of one of the trees; "to view the landscape," he said; Miss Cole thought he wanted "to break one of his limbs, to give father a little more work to do." Martha said it was because he wanted to "tear all his clothes off his back."

Jim turned rather red as these words floated down, but he looked more uncomfortable still when Miss Cole remarked quietly, with a very grave face—

"I knew a boy who used to say he had been through just such wonderful adventures as the one you have just been telling us, and his mother found that a good whipping was the best thing to give him after he had seen or done such wonderful things."

Jim jumped up in a great hurry and tore across the garden.

"What's he after now?" called Percy from his high seat.

"More mischief, I expect," answered I. Percy climbed down.

"Fancies he can't be frightened, doesn't he! H'm! Fancy I could make him jump if I liked. Girls, let's think how we can do it."

Miss Cole, laughing, left us to our "plot-making," as she called it, and went indoors. We sat quiet, and thought. By and by Milly said, "I say! couldn't we put Tuts in his bed? I expect he'd"—

"The very thing to pay him out!" cried Percy. "After his treatment of poor Tuts, too. You girls go in now, and keep things quiet. I know how I'll manage."

The boys generally went to bed when we did, rather before it was dark enough to have a light, but this evening we all asked mother if we might sit up a little later. Mother was rather unwilling at first, but we told her we would lie on later in the morning; then we wouldn't be too tired for the party.

We sat in the schoolroom, in the dusk, telling stories of fairies, pixies, and ghosts. Jerry was in the secret, and she told dreadful tales. After some time Percy said, with a wink at me—

"If you girls tell any more tales, you won't be able to sleep for fright."

"I'm not frightened," cried Milly and Jerry in a breath.

"Goodness! who is? I like it," said Jim.

"Well," I said, getting up and pretending to yawn very much; "I think we had better go on to bed. We girls will, anyway."

Our part was to get Tuts into the bed. There was only room for one in Percy's bed; so while Jim was there, Jim slept in the bed, and Percy in a chair-bed in the same room. We said good-night, found Tuts, and carried him up to the boys' room. We put him right into the middle of the bed; he curled himself up into a ball and nestled down as though he quite understood. We put back the clothes carefully and went to our own room, Jerry coming with us.

Presently we heard the boys coming up; I slipped over and opened our door, and we waited to hear the fun. Quietness for some time, and then, oh! such a shriek and a howl, and cries of "What's the matter? what's the matter?" Up came father, two stairs at a time, and hurried into the boys' room.

"What is the matter?" we heard him asking.

"I was in bed, father, and Jim was just getting in. I had just put out the candle, and Jim screamed out," Percy said.

"Where are you, Jim? What is it?" asked father again.

"Oh! oh!" howled a dismal voice from the other end of the room; "there's something horrible in my bed. It's a ghost, or a witch, or something."

"Nonsense," said father. "Where are the matches? Where's the candle?"

"Here's the candle, father," said Percy in a shaky voice (he couldn't keep from laughing). Father lighted it, and then—you should have heard the peals of laughter.

"It's Tuts! it's Tuts," shrieked Percy. "Oh, Jim! Oh, Jim, I thought you were never frightened. Poor old Tuts! Oh, oh, oh!"

Father quieted them, not saying very much, and left them. Jerry, hearing her mother asking what was the matter, went out and told her all. Mrs. Emson was very angry with Jim; she promised him a punishment when they went back to London; she laughed heartily about Tuts in his bed. Mother came to us, and somewhat subdued our mirth by telling us it was rather a rude trick to play on a guest, but she was bound to laugh when we told her how Jim had howled. As for Jim himself, he indulged in a fit of sulks which lasted until he left us.

### CHAPTER V.
THE BIRTHDAY PARTY.

Milly's birthday had arrived at last. The weather was beautiful. We were all wildly excited. We girls ran about, helping, we said, but Martha sent us off into the garden out of her way. Miss Cole was in the big pantry, making ice-cream; she could make it splendidly. We didn't eat much dinner, of course, and as soon as ever it was over we went upstairs to get ready. Mother quickly came after us, and made us all rest for an hour and a half.

Before the time was up we thought we had, as Milly said, "lived three afternoons in one." Just as the clock struck three, mother and Mrs. Emson came to help us; then our tongues ran along as though they would never stop. Milly and I were dressed alike in our best party dresses of cream nuns-veiling, with elbow sleeves edged with long yellow lace, and lace gathered round the necks. Mrs. Emson said they were sweet; and indeed they were pretty.

Maud wore a white muslin dress and pinafore, as she would be sure to get some fruit-stains, or upset her tea. Jerry looked very nice in a pale blue silk, and pale blue stockings and shoes. Our shoes and stockings were tan; Percy called our legs mustard-pots.

When we were ready, we went down to the drawing-room to wait for our company. They were twelve: six boys and six girls; so we were eighteen altogether. We had such fun in the garden all the afternoon. Milly had such a lot of presents. At five o'clock we went to have our tea.

A very long table was spread, under the trees, with all sorts of nice things. Mother and Miss Cole poured out tea; Mrs. Emson and father passed the eatables. Father told us such funny tales all the time, and kept us laughing. The ice-cream was delicious. Tea over, we had games again; and the time fairly ran away. It seemed nine o'clock almost directly. We were too excited to want to go to bed when our friends had gone, but we had to go at once.

"You will all be knocked-up in the morning if you don't," said father; "besides, remember that Jerry and Jim have a long journey before them." So off we went. Maud was sleepy and cross. She had upset a glass of raspberryade over her pinafore, and had a wide pink stripe down the middle of her frock. What a lovely time we had had! In comparison with the dark days that followed so soon after, that one seemed to stand out clear, as one of the brightest and happiest we had ever spent.

The following day, Mrs. Emson and her children went away. We were really sorry to say good-bye to Jerry, for we had grown to like her and understand her, but Jim—as Martha said, "we were not at all sorry to see the back of him." He was sulky to the last. Milly was rather tired and out of sorts that day: the effects of the party, mother said. The next day she was no better, and did not go to church. On Monday she seemed feverish, and mother thought she had a bilious attack, and father gave her a powder.

She was a little better the next morning, but was so poorly again in the evening that mother told me I had better sleep in Percy's room; then I should not be disturbed by Milly's restlessness. Percy had gone to visit a friend of his in Moultby. Milly continued poorly up to Friday, sometimes better, sometimes worse. Father did not know what to make of her; he was worried about her. He told me not to go into her room more than I could help.

On Thursday, in the middle of the afternoon, I stopped at her door to ask her how she was. She was much better, she said; so I went in and sat down with her. Presently mother came up, delighted to see Milly looking so bright. Then Martha opened the door and peeped in.

"Miss Addie, here's little Miss Townley asking to see you," she said.

"To see me?" I cried.

"Yes, she asked to see Miss Adelaide. She come with her governess. I've showed 'em into the drawing-room."

"Mother, am I tidy? Oh, I wonder what she's come for!" I said excitedly.

"Don't be so wild, dear. You look very well. Don't fall over the stairs in your hurry to get down."

Eleanor was looking lovelier than ever, I thought. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were sparkling. She said her aunt had sent her to say that on Tuesday they intended driving to a beautiful seaside town about twenty miles away, staying one night and returning on Wednesday; would I like to accompany them? if so, Miss Townley would be very pleased. "Do try and come, Addie; won't you? I shall be so disappointed if you can't."

"Oh, I should like to," I said, feeling my cheeks get hot with excitement. "How lovely it would be! Where should we sleep?"

Eleanor laughed; the "dear creature," as Percy called her governess, smiled in a condescending way. "Why, at an hotel, of course. Did you suppose we should sleep on the sand? Will you ask your mother quickly? Miss Ashton says we must not stay long."

The "dear creature" murmured something in a low tone.

"Oh, I'll ask her now; she's upstairs. Milly isn't very well, and mother is sitting with her," I said.

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Eleanor; "what is the matter with her?"

"Father thinks the party last week was rather too much for her. She is upset by the excitement."

"I should so much like to see her," said she; "do you think I might?"

"I'll see," said I; and ran upstairs, two at a time, arriving in Milly's room out of breath. When I had managed to say all I wanted to, mother said she thought Eleanor might come up if she liked. She only stayed about ten minutes; mother said I might go on Tuesday. She and father were both very pleased that Miss Townley had asked me to go. The following afternoon, Eleanor called again, bringing with her some flowers and fruit; father said she had better not see Milly, who had been in bed all day. On Saturday, just after dinner, mother, who was looking anxious to-day, said, "Addie, just run up and see if Milly is awake yet. You need not go into the room. Stand at the door and speak."

I went up and called her softly. Receiving no answer, I went in, intending to look and go away. Milly was asleep, and I was turning to leave the room when I caught sight of a book lying on the chest of drawers. I took it up and turned over the pages to find the place where I had left off. I had read about half a page when I heard somebody say, in such a queer voice, "Addie jumped out of the apple tree and rode up to heaven on my bubble."

My heart gave such a jump. Who was that? The funny harsh voice went on, "Can't I drive now, Percy?" and then came such dreadful sobs; and at the same time it broke upon my senses that it was Milly talking so strangely. She was sitting up in bed, throwing her arms about wildly; her cheeks were very red, and her eyes looked very bright, as though she was frightened.

"Mother! mother!" I screamed, rushing out on the landing. "Mother, come up quickly!" Mother hurried up. Milly was crying bitterly, talking nonsense all the time.

"My darling, lie down," said mother in her sweet voice. "Tell me what is the matter;" but she only went on crying in the same strange way.

"Addie," said mother, "father is down at Mr. Gray's. Run down as quickly as you can and ask him to come at once. Tell him Milly is very ill. Call Martha as you go downstairs, and tell her to come up to me."

I did not wait to be told twice. I flew down the stairs, seized my hat, burst into the kitchen, sent Martha running upstairs nearly as fast as I came down, and then was off to Mr. Gray's. Fortunately it wasn't far, and in a very short time father was at home. He went to Milly at once; but after a few minutes, came out and wrote a few words on a slip of paper, gave it to me, and told me to take it down to Dr. Lang.

"If Dr. Lang isn't at home, Addie, ask where he is, and if it is not too far, go there with the note. I wish Percy hadn't gone away."

"Is Milly very ill, father?" I whispered.

"I hardly know yet, dear. I'm afraid she is. Don't be longer than you can help."

I ran all the way to Dr. Lang's. He was just riding in as I rang the bell. He read the note and went at once, I supposed, to our house. I followed. I went in the back way. Martha was pushing thin pieces of wood into the fire.

"How is Milly now, Martha? What is the matter with her?" I asked as soon as I got inside.

"She's very bad, Miss Addie. The doctor 've ordered poultices, so I'm making the kittle boil quick. Hand me out that there big knife, my dear. What's the matter, d' you say? I don't know, but I'm mortal feared 'tis fever."

"Fever?" I gasped. "Oh, Martha, no!"

"Hush, now hush, my dear; I don't say 'tis and I don't say 'tisn't. Be quiet now. Don't say I said so for the world, will you? Wherever is that Jane stoppin' to? Bother her! she never is where she's wanted to be."

"Addie!" called father softly. "Martha, has Miss Addie got back yet?"

"Yes, father, here I am;" and I went out to the hall.

"Take this note down to the Hospital, Addie. It's asking for a nurse to be sent up. Don't cry, my dear. It may not be so serious as we fear."

Looking back on that night and the wretched days that followed, to me it seems like a bad dream. How can I tell of the miserable time? Father wrote to the friends with whom Percy was staying, asking if they would mind keeping him for a week or two, as Milly had scarlet fever. They were so kind. They came over the next day to see if they could do anything more for us; they said Percy might stay as long as he liked, and might they take either of the others?

I could not be spared; Maud had already gone to Dr. Lang's. He had no children, his sister kept house for him, and we had been glad to get Maud out of danger's way. Father thought I wasn't very likely to take the fever now, as I had had it very badly when I was quite a little girl. I hadn't to go near the room in which Milly was lying; a great wet sheet flapped up and down outside the door all day and night long.

Milly did not have the fever so very, very badly, though for several days she was very ill. Of course my trip with Eleanor and Miss Townley had been put off.

Three weeks passed, Milly was progressing very favourably, when one day, as father and I were sitting alone in the parlour, mother being upstairs with Milly, Tom came in from the surgery, saying one of the grooms from the Court had been down, asking if Dr. Dixon would go up as soon as possible.

"Did he say who was ill, Tom?" asked father.

"Yes, sir. He said he thought it was Miss Eleanor, as she has been poorly for a day or two. He said, would you please step up at once, sir."

"Oh, father," I said, "suppose Eleanor has the fever too?"

"Hush, Addie! Don't tell your mother I have gone out."

How anxiously I waited for his return, and then I was almost afraid to hear what he had to say. He told me he was afraid she was going to be very, very ill; he had telegraphed to London for two trained nurses. They arrived by the midnight express. Father was up at the Court the first thing in the morning. He came home with a very grave face. It was fever.

"She will need all our prayers, Helen, and her aunt will too," he said to mother.

"Is Miss Townley very grieved?" I asked, with the tears running down over my face.

"Yes, dear, she is, very much so." And father turned to go and see Milly.

That afternoon father came home looking quite worn out. I poured out his tea and did several little things for him; he was very quiet, and let his tea grow quite cold before he drank it, and did not eat anything. At last he spoke—

"Where is mother, Addie?"

"She is lying down, I think. Shall I call her?"

"No, no. Let her rest while she may. Run and send Tom to tell Masters to bring round the brougham."

"The brougham, father! Isn't it too hot?"

"I am going to fetch Maud. Lang says she has the fever coming on. I was afraid of it yesterday. I don't want her to be ill there, so I must fetch her now, before she gets worse."

I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. I did not feel at all inclined to cry, yet I felt my lips tremble, and something queer in my throat as though it were breaking. Father came over and put his arm round me.

"Don't you give way, Addie. We must have somebody to look after us and comfort us. You go and lie down in the parlour. I'll go and tell Masters myself. And, Addie, don't say a word to mother to alarm her. I'll tell her myself when I come back."

I went slowly into the parlour, trying to realise what it all meant. Milly was slowly recovering; Eleanor was very ill; Maud was going to be ill; where and what would the end be? Milly and Eleanor both had scarlet fever. Suppose Eleanor had caught it from Milly? suppose mother should take it too? suppose she should be ill, and oh! the horrible thought flashed across my mind—what if mother, our dear sweet mother, should die? What—but I couldn't get any further in my supposings.

I remember getting up from the couch, and kneeling down and trying to pray that mother might not be ill; I know I could not say any words. I felt as though my breath were all going away, and as if everything in the room were spinning round, and then—I was lying on the couch, with Martha bending over me. I had fainted, she said, and coming to look for me, she had found me lying on the floor, and had been rather alarmed. However, there wasn't much the matter; but Martha made me go straight to bed.

"But, Martha, you won't say a word to mother about it, will you?" I asked in a voice I couldn't own for my own.

"You don't think I'm so silly as to go and worry your mother's life right out of her, do you? 'Specially now, when she got enough else to think on. You go and get to bed now. I'll tell your father you've got a headache."

I went to bed, but couldn't go to sleep. I had a horrible feeling that something was going to happen soon. I heard father come home with Maud; I heard him carry her into the spare-room; then Martha came up too. By and by, after what seemed hours to me, I heard mother's voice outside my door, and I called to her. She came in.

"What is it, dear?"

"I only want to say good-night to you, mother. How is Maud? Do you really think it is fever?"

"Yes, dear, it really is. Father has sent down for another nurse to help look after her," said mother, seating herself on the edge of the bed. "The fever isn't very high yet, so we must hope for the best;" and dear mother tried to smile cheerfully, but she couldn't.

"Mother," I said as well as I could for a great lump in my throat, "how did Milly get the fever in the first place?"

"We don't quite know, dear. Father says there are a good many cases about, so I suppose Milly caught it when she was in the town from someone."

"But, mother, Eleanor didn't take it from Milly, did she?"

"She may have, Addie, but we don't think so, as she has been going in and out of the houses in the part where the fever is."

"Oh, mother! Why did Miss Townley let her go?"

"I'm not sure that she knew, dear. But I mustn't stay any longer. Milly is going to get out of bed for a little while to-morrow. I must go back to poor little Maud. You will pray to God to grant that this illness of hers will not be more than she can bear, won't you, dear?"

I put my arms round her neck; I couldn't speak. She kissed me ever so many times and went away, and then I burst into tears and cried as I never remembered crying before, or than I have since. I was lying still, quite exhausted, when father came in with a glass in his hand.

"Here is some lemonade, Addie; sit up and drink it." As I lay down again I had such a queer taste in my mouth; so I said—

"Father, I think that lemonade is gone off. It tastes very funny."

"Never mind, go to sleep," was all he said; and I did go to sleep in earnest, sleeping soundly until late the next morning. As I went down, the kitchen clock struck eleven.

"How is Maud this morning, and Milly?" I asked of Martha, who was washing dishes.

"Miss Milly's getting on first-rate. Miss Maud's very bad; your mother has been up with her all night. There's two nurses here now. Your father's dreadful anxious about Maud for one thing, and little Miss Townley for another. She isn't expected to live; but there! talking won't do no good. Sit right down here and have your breakfast this morning, Miss Addie; I can't stop to take it inside. I was only thinking what a good thing it is Mrs. Emson went away before this came. Now eat away, my dear, and try and make a good breakfast."

I can only give a confused account of what happened during the next few days. Maud grew worse rapidly, and in two days was in great danger. Eleanor was in a critical condition: her fever had not "turned" at the right day, and now they were very much afraid she would die from weakness, if she got over the fever itself.

In the week that followed Maud's return from Dr. Lang's I saw Milly twice for a few minutes. She was getting better, but was fretful: wanting mother to stay with her all the time; and not understanding why she could not, as we had not told her that Maud was ill. She never mentioned Eleanor's name; she did not seem to think of her, and we were very glad, as we knew how grieved she would be to hear of her illness.

One dreadfully hot afternoon, passing quietly through the hall I overheard Martha say to the woman who came in to help during this time of sickness—

"Dear lamb! the crisis will be to-night. We shall see how 'tis to be with her then. 'Tis pitiful to watch her. She was a bit delirious again just now, nearly throwing herself out over the bed. Her father and the nurse held her down till the fit like passed. Poor missis nearly broke down then. The doctor took her away and gave her something to keep her strength up till to-night, anyhow. Dear, dear."

"Which way do you think it'll turn?" the woman asked; but I ran quickly upstairs, not daring to stay to hear Martha's answer. Looking into Milly's room, I saw she had been crying. "What is it, Milly?" I said, going over to her chair.

"Oh, Addie," she said, with a weak kind of sob; "it's so hot, and I'm tired, and I want mother. She never hardly comes in to see me now. Why is it, Addie?"

"Maud isn't very well, and as she's the baby, she wants most attention, you see."

"She hasn't got the fever, has she?"

"I—I—I think she has a touch of it," I answered, all in confusion at her sudden question.

"I hope she won't be very bad," went on Milly innocently.

"I'll run down and see if that is anyone calling," I said hurriedly; and left the room, because I was afraid of what she might say next. Father was crossing the landing from Maud's room to his own. I told him what Milly had been saying, and he turned into her room instead. One of the nurses was coming up as I went down; I asked how Maud was. "There is no change, dear; we are hoping for the best."

A little later on I was in the parlour, looking for my thimble, which I had mislaid, and now wanted in a great hurry, to make a doll's hat for Milly. I did not notice father was in the room until he said—

"Addie, Eleanor asked for you this afternoon."

"Did she, father? How is she to-day?"

"The fever has gone, but it has left her very weak, very weak indeed. I telegraphed to-day for Dr. Martin from London. Miss Townley said she would like to have him sent for, as he has attended Eleanor in London and knows her constitution. I thought I should like him to see Maud while he is here."

I glanced up at father as he said this, and I was struck by the worn, sad look on his face. How he had changed in the last few days! And mother too—all her pretty colour had gone; the trouble and grief had made them both look ever so much older.

Just then Martha opened the door and asked father if he could spare Tom to go to Mrs. Day's for some eggs she wanted. Father said to me—

"Mrs. Day said she would like to see you, Addie. She isn't afraid you will carry any infection. Would you like to go for the eggs? If so, put on your hat and run along."

I hadn't gone far before I met Miss Cole. She had been obliged to go away a fortnight before. Her sister, who lived in Oxford, was ill, and she had gone to see her. Miss Cole said she had only just returned, leaving her sister much better. She was so grieved to hear about poor little Maud. She was then going up to our house, to see if she could be of any use.

I hurried on to Mrs. Day's, longing yet dreading for the night to be passed and the next day come. What would it bring? joy or sorrow? death or life? Dear little Maud! Would Jesus, Who loved little children, see fit to take her away from this beautiful earth, which grown-up people said was so sinful and wicked, to the still more beautiful heaven, where everything was bright and glorious, and where He lived, and His Father, and our dear baby brother; or would He spare her to us, who loved her so dearly? I did not know; I could only pray that God would teach us that His will was best, whatever He did.

### CHAPTER VI.
A WONDERFUL STORY.

That night everybody stayed up but Milly and myself. Father had given Milly a sleeping-powder early in the evening, so she knew nothing of what went on in the house. Miss Cole stayed all night. Father wouldn't let her go in to see Maud. She came into my room and stayed for a long time, as I could not sleep; I had not wanted to go to bed, but father had told me I must. Hardly a sound disturbed the deep hush. Once I heard Maud crying softly, and mother soothing her. A night-light was burning in my room; I was sitting up in bed, when Martha came in quietly. "How is she now, Martha?"

"Hush, dearie; lie still, and try and go to sleep. She's just the same. Your mother's lying down in there, now; she's looking fit to drop;" and she went out again.

Slowly the time dragged on. The clock struck twelve, and Maud's door opened and father came out. I suppose he heard me move, for he came into my room. He said there was no change yet; he was now going down to get something to give her. He brought me a powder, like the one he had given Milly, and made me take it. I did not want to, but I had to do as father said. Though I tried to keep awake, I couldn't—my eyes were so heavy, and I was so sleepy.

When I awoke, it was quite light and so hot. I opened my door and listened. What a hush was over the house! Strain my ears as much as I would, I couldn't hear the least sound. I felt as though my heart had turned right over and was coming up into my mouth. I dressed as quickly as I could for my trembling hands. Just as I had finished, Miss Cole came in. I couldn't ask her anything, but she understood, and came close to me, and putting her arm round me, said—

"Addie, we must thank God this morning for His wonderful goodness. Dear little Maud is sleeping so peacefully; we hope now that the worst is over. Your mother is resting. I am going home for a little while. I shall be back again soon after dinner. You will do what you can to help everybody; won't you, dear?"

"Yes, I will," I answered, gulping down that horrid lump in my throat.

I soon found there was plenty to do. Martha and Jane were very busy. "That there woman," as Martha called her, hadn't come. I had a few dusting jobs given to me to keep me occupied, and I went about them in a quiet and subdued manner, yet feeling so very, very thankful in my heart, though perhaps I didn't show it.

Mother came down to dinner, looking so pale and tired, but trying to smile and be cheerful. It was so delightful to have her again, if only for an hour; so I made the most of it. After dinner she wrote a few lines to Percy, and then went up to Milly for a short time before going back to Maud. I was standing outside Milly's door talking to her, when Miss Cole came in.

"How are you this afternoon, dear?" she said, bending down and kissing Milly. "I've come to stay with you."

"You ought not to have kissed me, you know. Have you put a lot of 'Sanitas' on you?" said Milly.

"I shan't get the fever, dear; I'll take care of myself. Addie, Dr. Dixon said he wanted you to come down to him, if you are not busy."

"Oh, I'm not doing anything particular; I'll go now." Father was in the surgery; he gave me a duster, telling me to dust a lot of bottles standing on one of the shelves. For some time we did not speak to each other, as father was turning out and examining drugs, and he could not talk. At last he said—

"Would you like to go up and see Eleanor, Addie?"

"Yes, father, I should very much. Do you think I may?"

"I hardly know. It's running a risk; still, if you— Come here and let me look at you."

I went over, and father looked at my tongue and throat, felt my pulse, and then said—

"I think perhaps you may, for a few minutes. I shouldn't let you in an ordinary way, but she has asked for you so often, and she is so very weak that we don't want to cross her any more than we can possibly help."

Silence for some time, and then father began again. "Addie, mother and I were talking of you just now. When Mrs. Emson was here, she puzzled you one day by saying she had been to see your aunt. We have come to the conclusion you might as well know; so I thought I would tell you now."

"What about, father? Have I really got an aunt in Neesby?"

"Yes; now listen."

I can't remember the story just as I heard it, so I will tell it in my own way.

Many years ago, when mother was a lovely girl of nineteen, she went away from home to pay a long visit to a cousin, who lived in Scotland. There she met father, a young doctor just starting in his first practice. They became very fond of each other; and when mother, at the end of six months, left for her own home, she had promised to be father's wife.

Mother's family was a very proud one—proud and old. Her father and mother wanted her to marry a very grand gentleman who lived on the estate next to theirs, and when she told them she was engaged to a poor, obscure, young country doctor, they were horrified. They wanted her to break off her engagement and marry the other gentleman at once, but mother loved father too much for that; but she promised to wait until she was twenty-one.

After her twenty-first birthday her father never spoke to her again; she saw very little of her mother. She had one brother, Perceval. He was several years older than herself, and was her only friend during the last week she spent in her old home; her only sister, a girl of sixteen, was away at the time.

On the morning mother went down to the old church to be married, her brother was the only friend present except Uncle Dick, and those who came out of curiosity. After her wedding morning mother never saw him again; he was a soldier, and shortly after was ordered abroad, where, as she afterwards heard, he was married. Twice mother wrote to grandmother, but each time her letter was returned unopened.

One day, when mother was in London on business (it was when Percy was a baby), she met her sister, now grown to a young lady. She was cold and distant in manner; mother inquired for everybody, and heard from her of the death, in India, of her brother's wife, who had left one little girl just a year old. For some years after that, mother heard very little of them: then the news of grandmother's death, followed nine weeks after by grandfather's, reached her. Then Uncle Perceval died too, leaving his little daughter to the care of her aunt. The grand old family house and estate, of which grandfather had been so proud, passed into the hands of another branch of the family, and—now father came to the most wonderful part, at which I had been beginning to guess.

Mother's only sister, with her little niece, had spent two or three years in France after her parents' death, and then returned to England, looking about for a suitable country house. This she had but lately found, and—Miss Townley was mother's sister, and Eleanor her only brother's only daughter. It nearly took my breath away. Miss Townley, beautiful, grand, stately Miss Townley—was my aunt.

"Why!" I gasped at length, "mother's life has been like a story-book. How unkind! how cruel grandfather was to her!"

"Hush, Addie!" said father gravely. "Mother would be very grieved if she heard you say that. Now, you've got something to think of. I've to go to the hospital. Good-bye."

Father had truly said I had got something to think of. Who would ever have thought that mother, our mother, had—well, almost run away from home? I wondered if she had ever been sorry; I didn't think so, but I would ask her one day when Maud was better; and then, back came my thoughts with a rush. Eleanor was ill! I was going to see her! did she know? and then a wave of excitement swept over me, and I longed for to-morrow.

That evening, as I was preparing for bed, mother came into my room, and we had a nice long talk together about her early life. She said she had never regretted her rash act, but she had regretted the rashness. She wished that she had waited and coaxed and begged for her father's forgiveness. It was a great grief to her that she had not seen her parents again after she married.

"Did you know Miss Townley—I mean, Aunt Esther—was coming here to live?"

"No, dear, and I am sure Esther didn't know we were living here. If she had she would not have come, for she is very proud, and thinks I have committed almost a sin in marrying father."

"But why, mother dear? Father is a gentleman, and we are not very poor."

"I can hardly explain to you, darling. You will understand when you get older; but now, father says your aunt has been taking notice of you, and if you are the means of restoring happiness between us, why, Addie dear"—and mother broke off, unable to say any more; but I understood, and knew they were hoping that I should do much when I went to see Eleanor.

Milly and Maud were both going on nicely, so I slept peacefully all night without the help of a sleeping-powder. Early, about ten o'clock, the next morning father took me to see Eleanor. I was not to stay longer than a few minutes, nor to talk much. Eleanor was so altered. Her hair was cut off, and her cheeks were white and thin, and her eyes so large. She seemed so glad to see me, saying in a weak voice as soon as I went in—

"Addie, do you know we are cousins?"

"Yes," I said; "and when you are well, won't we have some jolly times!"

"I'm not going to get better at all," she whispered.

"Oh, Eleanor! No! you mustn't say that. You will, if you take your medicine and all that."

"I don't think I shall. I want Aunt Esther and Aunt Nelly to be quite friends. I wish I could see Aunt Nelly. I haven't known about her very long. I pray they may be quite friends every"—but her strength gave out, and she said no more. The nurse sent me away. Miss Townley was standing in the great, dark hall; she took me into a pretty room on the right.

"How do you think Eleanor is looking, Addie?" she asked.

"I think she looks very ill, but I hope she will soon get better," I answered, lifting my eyes to her beautiful face. If Mrs. Emson could have seen her now, she wouldn't have thought she had no feeling. There were tears in her eyes, and her lips were trembling. I felt my heart fill with love for her, and I went over to her and whispered, putting my arms round her neck—

"Dear auntie! we are praying she may get better soon."

She burst into tears, clasped me in her arms, and kissed me. Having gone so far, I thought I might go further; so with a fluttering heart I said—

"Auntie, Eleanor would like to see mother."

She rose from her seat.

"Yes, dear," she said. "I will go and ask her to come at once."

How glad, how thankful I was! Truly God had put the right words into my mouth. In a very short time we were on our way home in Aunt Esther's carriage. Mother was upstairs with Milly. I went up as quietly as I could. "Mother dear, there's somebody downstairs wanting to speak to you," I said.

"Is it anyone particular, dear? I'm rather busy just now."

"You'd better go down, mother. You needn't stay very long, you know," I said. Mother went. What they said to each other, I do not know; I don't suppose I ever shall. In about half an hour mother came out and told me she was going back to the Court then. I mustn't go into Milly's room. The nurses would take care of her and Maud.

It was tea-time when mother returned. She stayed with Maud most of the evening, and about nine o'clock went back to the Court again. Eleanor was very ill; there was very little hope of her recovery. Father, mother, and Aunt Esther did not leave her all night. About half-past eleven she looked up and tried to say something. Aunt Esther bent down and listened to her weak voice.

"You will always love Aunt Nelly now, won't you? Tell Addie to—love Jesus. If I hadn't, I should have been—afraid to die, but—I'm not. I know—" but what she knew she did not say. She did not speak again, but lay so quietly that they hardly knew the exact time she went to heaven.

Mother came to me before I was up, telling me the sad news. Somehow, in spite of all they had said, I had not thought she would really die. Again that dreadful feeling came over me, and I felt myself falling and the room spinning round like a top. When I recovered my senses, father and mother both said bed was the best place for me, and there I must stay all day.

I was alone the greater part of the time, mother spending a good deal of time at the Court. Everybody else was busy: Maud was ever so much better, but she wanted a good deal of amusing. I did not want much company, having plenty to think about.

Mother had told me that dear Eleanor's last words were a message to me. "Tell Addie to love Jesus." Why, I did love Him; I always had. What did she mean? Everybody loved Jesus—of course they did. I felt so uncomfortable, for, try to reason as I would, I knew I did not love Him as Eleanor meant.

She loved Him so much, and had trusted Him so entirely, that when she knew she was dying she had not been in the least afraid. I knew if I had been ill, and had known I was dying, I should not have felt as she had. I had never even thought of death. I knew I must die, some time or other, but it would be when I was an old woman; but now Eleanor had been taken, and it might have been me.

My mind was far from easy then; but how do you suppose I felt when mother came home in the evening and told me a few things she had heard of Eleanor's short life. She had been a Christian, mother said—a Christian in the truest and best sense of the word; she had served Christ very faithfully in her own way. Many a poor creature in Neesby had been up to the Court since the morning, and, with tears, had told of little deeds of kindness she had done, or kind words she had spoken.

Bessie, the maid who used to wait on her, said she had often gone into Miss Eleanor's room and found her crying over some coldness, or unkind words, of Aunt Esther's (for though Aunt Esther loved her dearly she seldom showed her love); and had heard her praying that she might be good and patient, and that her aunt might get to love her soon. Mother said when Aunt Esther heard Bessie telling that, she seemed nearly heart-broken.

The feeling among the poor people when they heard the sad news was one of great grief. Everyone with whom Eleanor had had anything to do had loved her, and, now that she was dead, mourned her loss.

When mother again left me to myself, I went over my past life, as well as I could remember it. I hadn't been very wicked; I hadn't been cross or disagreeable very much; I had been pretty good, I thought; but I knew if I had died, there would have been nobody who would have grieved very much, except just father and mother and the rest of them. I remembered once hearing Mr. Stapley, our clergyman, say that our lives had been given us to do some good in. What had I done? Nothing at all that would be worth telling the great Master. So far my life had been wasted.

Then, some mixed and confused ideas crossed my brain, about the Parable of the Talents; and of the wicked husbandmen; and of something Mr. Stapley said about the stones the husbandmen threw at the young heir when he came to his vineyard. He said that one stone which we threw at Jesus Christ in these days was neglect; and though we might think them very small and, perhaps, harmless, yet we should find that they would build such a big wall between us and heaven, that we should never be able to climb it or get through it.

This, it seemed to me, was my worst sin, and, getting out of bed, I made a solemn resolve, there and then, to do differently in future; and I have honestly tried ever since to do, at least, something for Jesus. He has always been with me, and has helped me in times of temptation; and I know now, that whenever the gentle white-robed angels come for me I shall be quite ready to go.

The next few days I spent with Aunt Esther; in the dreary days which came before Eleanor was buried, auntie told me how much she would have given to have her back again, if only for a short time, to tell her how much she had loved her. Then, too, she spoke of her pride and bad feeling towards mother, saying how different she would be if only she could live her life over again; as that was impossible, she would do all she could to make up for it in the future.

The day before the funeral I went with mother to take my last look at dear Eleanor. She was lying with such a peaceful, smiling look on her lovely face, that we felt we ought not to grieve, when we remembered she had gone to heaven to her father and mother, where she would never be unhappy again, or suffer any pain, or, as mother said, grow up to know the deceitfulness of this world's riches; but for our own sakes we couldn't help sorrowing for her, and wishing her back.

* * * * * * * * *

Aunt Esther had taken a great fancy to me, and I stayed on at the Court with her. It was a sad time: every place and thing reminded us of Eleanor; so I was not at all surprised when auntie said she must go away for a few weeks, but I was surprised when she wanted to take me with her. I thought it might be better for Milly to go, after her illness: but no; mother said she was taking Milly and Maud (who were themselves again in all but strength) to the seaside, and I must go with Aunt Esther.

We went to France. While there, Aunt Esther told me a little of the story of her life. When she was young she had been engaged to be married to someone, but just before their wedding-day he went away and married another girl. Poor auntie! After all, was it any wonder that she was so cold and proud? Nobody knew that her heart had been broken so many years before, and that she hid her pain under a haughty manner. Since the evening I heard this, auntie has never been Aunt Esther to me: she is always auntie.

When we came back from France we stayed in London for a week, to buy a few Christmas presents. The day after we arrived, auntie had a letter from a lawyer, saying Sir Guy Neesby was about to be married, and was going to bring his bride home to the Court; so would Miss Townley please take a quarter's notice and go away. Auntie said she would not wait for the quarter to come to an end, but paid her rent, gave up her tenancy, and came and spent Christmas with us. We were so glad, and happy too, though of course we did not forget dear Eleanor. Her grave is always covered with white flowers: auntie sends a lot from London, and we always keep them fresh and lovely.

Auntie's home is in London now. I spend a great deal of my time with her. Milly and Maud pay her long visits sometimes, but, as she says, I am her girl. Percy will be going to college next month; I think, most likely, he will be a lawyer. Milly is growing prettier every day; people say she will make a beautiful woman. Maud is everybody's pet. Miss Cole has been married for three years; she lives in America.

Martha is as quaint and kind as ever. Masters still drives the "kerridge," and "aks like a donkey," as Martha says, towards her. We, however, have a different opinion, and think that some day not very far distant, in spite of the donkey-like actions, Martha will become Mrs. Masters.

Father and mother are—well, just father and mother now. They are not to be compared to anyone else. Jim seems to be inclined to be braver now than when he was a boy, or, if he isn't, he ought to be, for he is now going into training for a soldier. Jerry is with her father and mother, who prefer India to England, and have a beautiful home there. Jerry, or Geraldine as she is being called now, visited us last year. She is greatly improved, and mother thinks will make a good woman, if she is not spoilt; but she is pretty, and will have plenty of money, and her mother isn't very wise in all things. Mother would like to have kept her for a year or more, but Mrs. Emson couldn't spare her.

The present Lady Neesby is very nice; we like her so much. She has plenty of money, and is doing such a lot of good with it. She and Sir Guy are very much beloved by all around. They are exceedingly kind to the poor.

We still live at Neesby, in the same old house. In a quiet spot in the garden there is a little grave, with a square piece of wood at the top, on which is painted (by Percy in what he calls "glowing colours," that is, crimson and blue) the following words:—

In Loving Memory of
T U T S,

A good and faithful dog, who died from exhaustion and
wounds received in a fight with the butcher's dog,
who had run away with Maud's doll.

ETHEL.

PRINTED BY MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED, EDINBURGH

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