A Sham Princess, by Eglanton Thorne—A Project Gutenberg eBook

"COULD it be that the Princess was going to die?" Bert held his breath as the thought smote him. He could almost hear the beating of his heart as he stood motionless, arrested by the painful idea, and gazed with anxious eyes on his sleeping sister.

Prin had been ill for more than a week, so ill that the parish doctor had come every day to see her; but Bert had never thought of death before.

The idea having presented itself, was not easily to be dismissed. He looked at Prin's white, sunken face, at the dark veins on her forehead, at the thin, white hands that were folded on her bosom; he listened to her quick, difficult breathing, and his fear deepened. How could he bear it if Prin died?

It was a small, mean room in which the brother and sister lived. The dirty, sodden paper hung in strips from the wall; the flooring was rotten, with holes gaping here and there; the place reeked of damp and worse; the window, dim with dirt, looked on to a foul area; it was hardly a room in which any patient was likely to make a good recovery.

The bed on which the sick girl lay looked very comfortless. Yet some one had arranged the grimy pillows in the best way possible, so that she lay at ease, and tended her so carefully that her white skin and fair hair had a purity which contrasted strangely with her dingy surroundings. This was their neighbour, Mrs. Kay, a woman who lived on the floor above, a native of Scotland, but who retained few traces of her Scotch upbringing save a faint and somewhat intermittent belief in the virtues of cleanliness. Bert had been wont to speak of her as the "cross old woman," for she had a sharp tongue and little patience with the ways of children; but she had not been cross at all since Prin fell ill, a fact which now struck Bert as ominous.

Bert knew what was the matter with his sister. She had had measles, and now, as he had heard the doctor say, they were succeeded by bronchitis. Bert himself had had measles; in fact, he had conveyed the infection to the Princess; but his ailment had been over in a couple of days. Clearly this "brownkitus," as he called it, was a much more serious thing.

Prin had been fretful and restless all day, but now at last she slept. As he watched her deep slumber, Bert took comfort from it. "If she sleep, she shall do well," he said to himself, not aware that he was making a quotation, though the words were a fleeting reminiscence of a Scripture lesson.

Suddenly, as he thought thus, there arose an uproar in the street above. It was never a quiet street by day or night. Fights and rows were of frequent occurrence, so that Bert was not surprised, though he was much annoyed when the sound of angry voices in hot altercation broke on his ear. If Prin were suddenly roused and affrighted, she would lose all the good that this sleep was doing her.

Bert was up the area steps in a moment, to see what he could do. Some lads, considerably bigger than himself, were causing the disturbance. The ringleader of the mischief had taken up his position, with his back against the railings of the area, and was inviting the others to "come on." With more pluck than discretion, Bert flew at him.

"Get out of this," he cried, shoving against him with all his might; "you don't stand here and make a row. Get out, I say. My sister's below very ill, and I won't have her woke by you, you big, hulking brutes!"

It was not a conciliatory mode of address, and it was hardly calculated to secure quiet. On the contrary, it created a greater hubbub.

The lad thus assailed by Bert turned upon him with an oath, and dealt him a violent blow on the head. The others, foreseeing a new diversion, forgot their common quarrel and closed around Bert. It would have gone badly with him—for these young street ruffians had no hesitation in attacking one so unequally matched with them—had not the doctor's trap at that moment driven up to the door.

"What is all this about?" he demanded as he stepped out. At the sound of his authoritative voice the cowards took to their heels, and Bert emerged from their midst with a bleeding face and torn clothing.

"What have they done to you? Let me see," said the doctor, in sharp but not unkindly tones. "Why do you go with such boys as those? You did something to provoke them, I suppose?"

"I only told them to move on because my sister was asleep, and I did not want them to wake her," said Bert.

"Ah, and they did not choose to be commanded by you?" said the doctor. "Well, I advise you to be more diplomatic the next time you hold parley with the enemy. But now wash the blood from your face, and I'll put a piece of plaster over that cut for you. Oh, you live here, do you? So, I see it is your sister I am attending."

Bert wondered that the doctor should not know him again. He followed him down the dirty steps of the area. In a few minutes Bert's face was dressed, and the doctor turned his attention to the sleeping child, whom the noises without had failed to rouse.

"She is," said the doctor decidedly, when he had made his examination, only partially waking the girl in doing so; "she really is better."

"Die! What put that into your head? No, if only—" he paused, and glanced round the dismal room with rather a hopeless expression—"if only she could have good air and good food, I should say she might do well. What she wants is to be sent into the country as soon as she is a little better."

Bert's face fell. The country seemed to him as far-away as heaven. If Prin's recovery depended on her going there, the chances were sorely against her.

"When she is not drunk," he had been about to say, but he checked himself. He was not willing to expose the failings of one who during the last few days had proved herself so kind a neighbour.

Dr. Hurst looked keenly at the boy. His face was honest; his blue eyes had a frank, open expression. It was plain he was speaking the truth.

"I shall soon be eleven, sir," said Bert, stretching his diminutive frame to its utmost height, "and Prin's two years older. I sells papers of an evening, and sometimes matches, and runs errands for people; and Prin, she minds babies and helps Mrs. Kay. But the worst of it is, Prin is not strong, and she soon gets tired. I often have to work for her as well as myself."

"Upon my word you are a brave little man," said the doctor, looking at him admiringly. He had already perceived that these children—the boy with his open, intelligent face, the girl with her pretty, delicate features—were of another type from most of the children who swarmed in that narrow slum. But he had taken it for granted that Mrs. Kay was their mother.

"He was a scene-shifter at the theatre, sir, and mother was one of the ladies of the theatre," said Bert, with evident pride in the announcement. "We used to live near Drury Lane at one time."

He did not explain that his father had lost his work through drink, and drifted lower and lower until his death.

Dr. Hurst stood musing on the facts thus presented to him. He felt that he had not sufficiently interested himself in these children. He was naturally a kind-hearted man, but long familiarity with the squalid homes amid which his work lay had blunted his susceptibilities.

His own life was a disappointment to him. Partly through his faults, partly by the force of circumstances, his medical career had proved somewhat of a failure. He had not anticipated that in mid-life he would hold the position of parish doctor in one of the lowest districts of London. The failure of his hopes had embittered him. He had grown cynical, morose, and inclined to take the darkest view of human nature. He was more often swayed by suspicion than by sympathy in his dealings with the poor. But he was touched by this boy's simple account of the life which he and his sister led. He looked on him with eyes softened by pity, and longed to do something to help these orphan children.

"Oh, Prin, sir—that's short for Princess, you know; but that's not her real name. Father used to call her Princess, because she once took part in a pantomime as a little princess. My! And didn't she look a princess too! You should just have seen her. Her frock was all white, and it sparkled so it made your eyes water to look at it. And she had diamonds in her hair and on her neck, and white satin shoes, and a fan that sparkled too. You couldn't have known her from a real princess."

"As real as the diamonds, no doubt," said the doctor drily. "Ah, so you call her Princess still."

He turned to look again at his patient. She was sleeping soundly once more. Her face was flushed now with a delicate rose, like the lining of a shell. She looked pretty and refined enough to be a princess; but the dingy pillows, the dark, unlovely room were a strange setting for that dainty, fairy-like head and face.

The doctor had smiled as he turned towards her; but the smile died away and a sad expression took its place. His eyes grew moist for a moment as he murmured, "Poor little Princess!"

It was so unusual for him to yield to such emotion that he felt ashamed of the momentary weakness, and with a quick assumption of his ordinary manner turned to the little lad, saying briskly,—

"Well, good day. Don't forget that the Princess needs feeding. Give her plenty of milk and good beef-tea, if you can get it."

That if was very much to the point. A look came into the boy's eyes that made the doctor feel that his words were cruel in their carelessness. "I might as well have ordered her champagne and oysters," he said to himself. Then Dr. Hurst did something which astonished himself. He put his hand in his pocket, drew out a shilling and threw it on the bed.

"There, lad, spend that on milk or beef for the Princess. It is to go for nothing else, mind."

Bert nodded gravely as he picked up the coin. He looked wonderfully relieved. He stood gazing at the coin with an air of extreme satisfaction, and it did not occur to him to utter a word of thanks.

But the doctor felt that he had been abundantly thanked as he hurried away from the miserable room. He entered the children's names in his note-book ere he drove away.

"A case for Mrs. Thornton," he said to himself. "I must interest her in these young waifs."

CHAPTER II

THE Princess was better. She was no longer in bed. Mrs. Kay had helped her to rise and dress herself; and now, in her shabby, threadbare frock, with thin, broken shoes on her feet, she sat on a hard, wooden chair, beside the little handful of fire which Bert had managed to kindle in the rusty grate.

She was a very miserable princess. She had felt ill enough as she lay on her comfortless bed, but she felt far worse now as she tried to sit upright on the hard chair, with its straight, uneasy back. Her limbs ached, her head throbbed, and every now and then she was conscious of a sick, giddy sensation, when the room seemed to go round with her, and she had to clutch at the chair to keep herself from falling. If only she had had a mother to care for her, and could have felt the comfort of a mother's love in the sore depression which was the result of weakness!

Mrs. Kay was well-meaning; but since she knew the young patient to be out of danger, her manner had grown stern again. Her better self, the self of long ago, had re-asserted itself during the days when Prin needed to be watched and tended from hour to hour; but already the good influence was past. Evil habits had resumed their sway over her. She was the "cross old woman" again, and when she was not at the laundry, where she earned her living, she was drinking in the public-house over the way.

Bert was kneeling by the fire, dividing his attention between a small saucepan, which was simmering on the hob, and his sister, on whom, from time to time, he cast glances expressive of anxiety.

"I do wish you wouldn't keep asking me if I feel better," she answered pettishly; "I feel worse, I tell you, a great deal worse than I did when I was in bed. Can't you believe me?"

"But you can't really be worse," said Bert, seeking to reassure himself. "The doctor says you are better, and Mrs. Kay says so, so you must be better."

"I suppose they know my feelin's better than I do," replied the Princess scornfully; "I tell you I am worse, and I ought to know, I should think."

"Oh, Prin!" exclaimed Bert reproachfully. "When I want you so much to live! What could I do without you?"

"I shouldn't do at all. I should die too," said Bert. "But don't talk of dying; just wait till you've had some of this beef-tea, and you'll feel as fit as possible."

As he spoke he lifted the lid of the saucepan, and a savoury odour was emitted. Bert's nostrils inhaled it with avidity. He was so hungry that he could have despatched in a few minutes all that the saucepan contained. But he had no intention of tasting more than a few drops, just to assure himself of the success of his cookery. Bert was feeling rather proud of his first attempt at making beef-tea. He had spent the last of the doctor's shilling on the beef—which was not of the primest quality—had got a hint from Mrs. Kay how to set to work, and the result was now to be tested. But the odour which Bert found so savoury only sickened the Princess, and to his keen disappointment she could not drink the weak, greasy decoction which he presently set before her.

And then to Bert's dismay, her head sank forward on her hands, and she began to sob helplessly. This was unlike the Princess, who was usually quick and imperious in her ways, and, though by no means sweet-tempered, perfectly self-controlled.

She signed to Bert to help her back to bed, and he obeyed. She sank down, hid her face in the pillow, and sobbed with hysterical violence, crying between her sobs,—"I wish I were dead. I do—I do!"

Bert stood looking at her in utter helplessness. He was devoted to his sister; but he was wont to regard her as one far stronger and more spirited than himself. She was his ruler, and her government was not of the gentlest description; but her faithful slave never rebelled. Their father had always petted and indulged her, while he made small account of Bert, whose appearance was mean and insignificant. The Princess was ever the Princess, to be treated with the first consideration, and given the best of everything it was possible to obtain. Bert had learned the lesson well. It never occurred to him to question her right to supremacy. He was as obedient to her now as he had been in the days when his father was at hand to insist upon his doing as she told him. It was positively alarming to Bert to see his sovereign thus prostrate.

"Don't cry, Princess," he pleaded; "oh, please, don't cry! It ain't no manner of use to cry. If things is bad to-day, they'll be better to-morrow."

"They will never be better for us," sobbed the Princess. "Look what a hole we live in! Could any one be well here?"

Bert thought he might be well enough there, if only he had something to stay the gnawing pain of hunger, of which he was just then disagreeably conscious. But he did not speak of his own feelings.

"If only you could go into the country, you would soon be well," he remarked; "the doctor said so."

"What is the good of saying it when I can't go?" asked the Princess peevishly. "You make me feel worse by talking of it. Oh, I am so thirsty! If only I had an orange!"

Bert looked around him in despair. He wished he had bought oranges instead of beef! Now he had not a penny left. His eyes searched for something that he could pawn; but there seemed nothing of any value that could be spared. Bert, however, was a boy of hopeful spirit.

"Just take a drink of this now," he said, bringing his sister a mug of water, "and I'll see if I can't get you an orange by-and-by."

The Princess drank a little of the water. Bert made a clumsy but well-meaning attempt to set her pillows comfortably, and then was off into the street. There was a metropolitan station not far from the street in which he lived. Bert made for this, in the hope of earning a penny by carrying a parcel or calling a cab. But there was no such luck for him this afternoon. Numbers of persons passed out of the station while he waited; but none of them wanted a boy. The ladies seemed to prefer to carry their own parcels, and there was no demand for cabs. He had no capital with which to start paper or match-selling.

He waited till the March evening closed in, and then, chill and weary, and hungrier than ever, he went home to see how the Princess was faring.

He halted for a moment at the top of the area steps. He did not like to present himself to the Princess without the orange which he had hoped to bring her. He dreaded her reproaches, and still more her tears. But there was no help for it. Slowly he opened the door and stole in. But the sight that met his eyes made him think for a moment that he had mistaken the house. He stood on the threshold and fairly gasped with surprise.

The first thing that met his astonished eyes was a heap of golden oranges lying on the dingy coverlid of the Princess's bed. Then he saw that the little rickety table beyond was spread with quite festal fare, and Prin, looking like her old self, and wearing a wonderful pink flannel jacket, was presiding over the feast, while Mrs. Kay, her bonnet on one side and her face suspiciously flushed, stood before the bright little fire engaged in toasting what looked remarkably like a muffin.

"Oh, come along, Bert!" exclaimed the Princess. "Here you are at last! I thought you never were coming!"

"Oh, Prin," gasped Bert, "where did you get those oranges and all those things?"

"Ah, you may well ask. There's been a fairy here since you went away. She brought me those oranges, and some tea and sugar, and that strengthening jelly; and she gave Mrs. Kay money to get firing and milk. Oh, you needn't look like that, Bert; it's quite true."

"Oh, ain't there! That's all you know. This fairy came in her carriage; but she wasn't a bit proud. She spoke as kind as kind to me. She said she'd heard of me from Dr. Hurst, and how I should never be better till I got into the country, and she's going to send me into the country. I'm going to-morrow, Bert. Only think of that!"

There was no need to bid Bert think of it. The news was startling in its unexpectedness.

"To-morrow," he repeated; "do you mean that you are going away to-morrow, Prin?"

"Yes, to-morrow," she repeated delightedly. "There's a nurse coming to fetch me, and I'm to have new clothes, and to go away in a cab. Won't it be lovely?"

"Yes," he said slowly, "it's the best thing possible for you. The doctor said the country would make you well."

He tried to think that he was glad, very glad, that Prin was going; but his heart felt strangely heavy.

"Oh, I don't know—somewhere in Hampshire, I think the lady said. Oh, do take that muffin from Mrs. Kay, Bert; she'll burn it, to a dead certainty."

Bert rescued the muffin from Mrs. Kay's unsteady hand. It appeared that she had spent some of the lady's money at the public-house, though she explained that she was suffering from a swimming of the head caused by a chill on the liver.

"Come and have some tea, Mrs. Kay?" said Prin, beginning to pour out the beverage from a brown teapot with a broken spout.

Mrs. Kay consented, but she did not drink the tea Prin poured out for her. She fell asleep with her head lolling uncomfortably on the back of the chair.

"Isn't that muffin done yet?" asked Prin presently. "What are you thinking of, Bert? I declare you are as bad as Mrs. Kay."

"Yes, it's done," said Bert, bringing it to the table. "I was thinking of you, Prin. You're better already, just for the thought of going."

"Of course I am. I feel almost well," replied Prin. "Now let us have some tea; I guess you're hungry."

There could be no question of that. Bert began to eat with keen appetite, and when the meal was over he felt much better for it. But there was still a weight on his mind.

"I never thought of it," she said. "I could think of nothing but what she was a-saying about the fields, and the trees, and the flowers, and the good the country air would do me. You should have been here."

"Well," he said slowly, "if you come back strong and rosy, I shall be very glad that you went."

CHAPTER III

THE hour of the Princess's departure had come. Already she appeared to belong to another place than the dingy underground room. A lady dressed in nursing costume had arrived in a cab, bringing with her a large bag. With the deft, quick manner of one used to such tasks, she proceeded to wash and dress the patient, arraying her in fresh, neat garments produced from the bag.

When her toilette was completed, Prin, wearing a serge frock and jacket and a sailor hat, looked a very different being from the forlorn, sick girl who had been lying on the wretched bed. She was one who "paid for dress," as people say. Even Bert, accustomed to do homage to her, was surprised at the new grace and dignity with which the Princess seemed to be invested by her change of garb.

The nurse looked with satisfaction on the result of her efforts. She noted what a pretty, gracefully-formed girl her patient was. Then her eyes fell on the little brother, shrinking back against the wall, as if suddenly smitten with awe of his transformed sister, and she was conscious of a painful contrast. Bert was not handsome, and his thin, stunted form, clad in hopelessly ragged garments, looked its worst at this moment. He had not washed his hands since he made the fire, and his fingers had conveyed various black touches to his face, the features of which were twitching grotesquely, partly from nervousness, partly as the result of a heroic resolve not to cry.

His was a queer little face at all times, with its snub nose and the sensitive mouth, which gave itself readily to contortions; but it was redeemed from ugliness by a pair of deep blue eyes, keen in their glance, from the swift intelligence of a boy who gets his living on the London streets. As she looked into those eyes, the heart of the nurse went out to him.

Prin looked as if she would have liked to disown him; but she nodded in reply to the question.

The nurse moved nearer to the deplorable little figure, and spoke gently to him. "What will you do when your sister is gone, my little man? Will you be quite alone?"

"I don't believe Mrs. Thornton understood that there was a brother," she said to herself. "Yet she has no home for boys, and she never sends them into the country."

Aloud she said, addressing Bert, "Would you not like to go to school with other little boys?"

"I do go to school," replied the boy. "I goes every day when we haven't measles. I'm in the fifth standard."

"Ah, that's well," said the nurse; "but would you not like to go to school altogether—to live in a school, I mean, with other boys, where they would be very kind to you and teach you a trade? I could write to Dr. Barnardo about you, if you liked, and I daresay he would take you into one of his homes."

"Oh, you might see your sister sometimes; not very often, of course; but you would be allowed to see her occasionally."

"And when I grew big enough he would send me over the sea, wouldn't he?" he asked.

"Then I won't go," he said. "No Dr. Barnardo for me. I wouldn't leave Prin for the world. I promised father I'd always be good to her, and it wouldn't be keepin' my promise to go off to the other side of the sea."

And his mind was not to be changed by anything the nurse could say. She had no time to waste in useless persuasions.

"Now you must bid your brother good-bye," she said to Prin; "it is time we started."

Fatigued by the exertion of dressing, Prin had sunk wearily on to a chair; but, as the nurse spoke, she rose with fresh elasticity in her bearing.

"Good-bye, Bert," she said carelessly. "Oh, do you want me to kiss you? Then you should not have such a black face. It's not fit to kiss."

Then with the nurse's help, she got into the cab; and seating herself, looked round with an air of queenly importance on the little crowd which had gathered to witness her departure.

The cab drove off, pursued for some little distance by a number of ragged and shouting children. But Bert was not amongst these. He stood on the edge of the pavement and watched till the cab turned the corner of the street; then he ran down the area steps, and crouching in the gloomiest corner of the dismal place he called his home, he gave way to the tears which could no longer be held back. The Princess had been his ruler and tyrant, but he loved her as even those who tyrannize are sometimes loved. She was the centre of his life, and his existence seemed empty and meaningless now that she had left him alone.

Bert soon found that he had lost his home, such as it was, in losing the Princess. On the evening of the next day, when he came back after selling newspapers with more than usual success, Mrs. Kay met him with the news that the landlady had let his room to some one else.

"She says you'll be getting behind with the rent now that your sister's gone, and a boy like you does not want a room to himself; but the truth is, she sees her way to making more money by it."

"What a shame!" exclaimed Bert. "Here, I've got the money for the rent now, and if I don't want the room, we shall want it when Prin comes back."

"Why do you speak in that way?" asked the boy quickly. "Prin is coming back. Do you mean to say she won't?"

"Oh, I say nothing," said Mrs. Kay; "only I shouldn't wonder if now she's gone, she were to stay away altogether. It's not such a very nice place to come back to."

"But she will come back," exclaimed Bert passionately, "I know she will! Prin is not the girl to go away and never come back. She wouldn't do such a thing as that."

"Well, I don't know," said Mrs. Kay. "You're too young to think of such things; but if there was a girl I loved, I would not have her come to a place so full of sin and evil as this is."

"Well, you know those girls that drink and swear and do everything that's bad? You would not have Prin become like one of them?"

"No," said Bert decidedly, "not like one of them noisy, rough girls. Is it sin to drink, then?"

"Oh, don't ask me!" exclaimed Mrs. Kay, with sudden and unreasonable impatience. "You should go to Sunday-school if you want to know about such things."

He retreated, wondering how he had made her so angry. He could not know the power his words had to sting her.

There had been a time when Mrs. Kay had been far from thinking of herself as a sinner. In the home of her childhood, away in the north of Scotland, she had received a religious training. No child could repeat more promptly the answers in the Catechism, or had a better knowledge of Bible history. As she grew up, the minister found her the most satisfactory scholar belonging to his "kirk." In those days she could have explained glibly enough the nature of sin and the remedy God had provided for it. Yet now, in middle life, she was a woman degraded and enslaved by sin, living without hope, and craving only to forget the happier past, having dropped, one by one, all the good habits of her earlier life.

"Was it sin to drink?" the boy had asked. Mrs. Kay had no doubt as to the answer to that question.

In simple, boyish fashion, Bert reflected on what Mrs. Kay had said. He had ample time for reflection now, for he was much alone. Naturally it had never occurred to him that he and Prin were surrounded by a moral atmosphere as bad for their souls as the tainted air of the slums was for their bodies. But now there came back to him certain things which he had heard his father say, without at the time comprehending their meaning.

Bert's father had been that strange anomaly, a man of strong religious beliefs, yet a hopeless slave to drink. He had not succumbed to temptation without a struggle. Many times had he signed the pledge, and he had kept it for intervals, sometimes of weeks, sometimes of months. During these periods of sobriety, he had done his best to instil religious truth into the minds of his children. He had warned them against his own vice. He had besought them to be true, and honest, and sober.

He was wise enough to know that his intemperance would probably involve his children's ruin as well as his own, yet this consideration was powerless to restrain him in the moment of weakness. Living where the enemy met him at every turn, his destruction was sure and swift. He had loved his children to the end; and Bert remembered that almost the last words he had heard from his father's lips were the prayer,—

He had felt sure that the words referred to himself and the Princess, but he had never thought about their meaning. Only now did a vague notion of the evil from which their father had prayed that they might be delivered begin to form itself within his mind.

CHAPTER IV

BERT found an early opportunity of pleading his own cause with the landlady. But in vain he begged her to let him remain longer in the miserable room he had called his home. He had no right to it. The poor furniture it contained was the property of the landlady, and she saw her way to letting the room to better advantage.

"What does a boy like you want with a room?" she asked. "You're always in the street. All you need is a place to sleep in. I'll put a shake-down for you in the corner under the stairs, and you'll be as cosy there as possible."

"Oh, well, it will be time enough to talk of that when she does come back," said the woman; and the words sent a chill to Bert's heart.

He had to content himself with the arrangement she proposed. She had no unkind intentions towards the boy; she only wanted to do the best she could for herself. In the days that followed, she was good to Bert in her way, sometimes giving him a basin of broth or a few potatoes for his supper, and demanding no rent of him, save a few simple services, which he willingly rendered instead of payment.

But the boy's life was very desolate. He had no "chum" amongst the boys in the street. His devotion to the Princess had prevented him from forming any friendship, and some instinct now withheld him from entering into alliance with these rude, low lads. He went regularly to school, and his quickness and intelligence made him a favourite with his master, who showed him much kindness in a careless fashion, little thinking how he was brightening Bert's life, or what a lonely life it was.

Out of school hours, Bert earned his living by selling papers, and having no longer to provide delicacies for the Princess, he soon found himself able to save some of his pennies. This was a great satisfaction to Bert. He set his heart on accumulating a hoard of pennies by the time Prin returned, and his imagination was largely occupied in arranging the details of the feast which he meant his money to furnish in honour of her return.

Meanwhile a week passed by, and the letter Prin had promised her brother did not arrive. He was growing impatient for news of her, and watched eagerly every night and morning for the coming of the postman. But that functionary always gave the same reply to his eager question. There was no letter for him. Probably the Princess was too absorbed in her new surroundings to give a thought to her little brother.

One evening when Bert came in, having sold all his papers, the landlady had news for him.

"There's been a gentleman here asking a lot of questions about you," she said. "He wants you to go into a home or something."

"Then I ain't going into a home," said Bert, stamping his foot by way of giving emphasis to his words. "I hope you told him so."

"Oh, I told him nothing," said the landlady, with a cunning look, "except that you no longer lived in that room down there. Did I know where you was? he said; and of course I didn't know where you was—I never know where you are when you ain't here."

"Of course not," said Bert, with a twinkle in his eyes. He understood that she had purposely misled the gentleman.

"I'm glad you didn't tell him nothing. I don't want to go away and be shut up in a home. What would the Princess say if she came back and found me gone?"

"Oh, as for that—" The woman laughed significantly. She did not believe that the lady who had taken the girl away would ever let her come back to that street. But she felt no compunction for having done her best to prevent the gentleman from tracing Bert. The boy was useful to her, and she wished to keep him at hand.

"Why, I declare!" she exclaimed the next moment, as the form of the postman suddenly appeared at the end of the passage, obscuring the light. Bert started at the sound of the loud rat-tat, then sprang eagerly to the door.

"Here, young man," cried the postman good-temperedly. "Isn't it you who are always asking me for a letter, and isn't your name Bertram Sinclair? Here you are then."

Bert could hardly believe in his good fortune as he seized the letter. The Princess had written at last, when he had ceased to hope that she would. Yes, the direction was written by her in a clear, though somewhat straggling hand. Carefully Bert opened the envelope. He would not tear it more than he could help, for even that was precious, as coming from the Princess. The light was waning in the passage, so he went to the door and seated himself on the step to read his precious letter. It was not very long, and he soon mastered its contents. The spelling was somewhat peculiar, but what Prin said was this:—

   "DEAR BERT,—

   "Perhaps you think that I might have written before, but really everything is so lovely here that I couldn't be bothered to write. It's not a bit like London here. There's a garden full of flowers, and fields, and woods with lots of primroses and violets that any one may pick. The lady keeps cows, and I have as much milk as I can drink, and every day I drive about in a beautiful carriage. Every one says how well I look, so different from what I was when I came. I am to stay here all the summer, and the lady says I must go to school of a morning, which I shall not like so much. She says she would like to keep me altogether, for I am so quick and clever she could teach me anything. Would you mind If I never came back at all?

   "How is old Mother Kay? Does she drink as much as ever? I hate to think of how horrid everything used to be. I am so much better off here. Hoping you are as well as this leaves me.

"I remain,

"Yours truly,

"PRIN."

It was not a very affectionate or sisterly letter, but, such as it was, it was the only letter Bert had ever had from the Princess, and he regarded it with considerable admiration. Yet there was that in it which stung him. Would he mind if she never came back? Surely Prin might have known that he would mind.

CHAPTER V

BERT read the Princess's letter over and over again, till he knew the words by heart. To keep it safely, he pinned it within his ragged jacket; but it was often in his hands, till from constant handling the paper became soiled and ragged. It was well he treasured it, for he got no second letter from Prin.

Week after week passed on. Spring grew into summer, and the sun's heat was fervid, and the air close and tainted in the narrow street in which Bert lived; but Prin, enjoying the fresher, sweeter atmosphere, and more wholesome life of the country, sent no token of remembrance to her brother. She did not write again, and it never occurred to Bert to write to her.

He could write, after a fashion, but it was an accomplishment he never practised out of school hours, and he had not written a letter in his life. He began to long for the summer to pass, for he believed that in the autumn Prin would come back to him.

"Over!" she repeated. "Why, it's hardly begun yet. This is only the beginning of June, though it's hot enough for August. You are in a hurry."

Bert sighed. It was of no use to be in a hurry. He could not make the days move faster.

That June was a memorable one in the life of London. It was the June of 1887. Already every one was talking of the magnificence with which the Queen's Jubilee was to be celebrated. Even amongst the poorest dwellers in the metropolis it was a subject of absorbing interest. Most persons meant to see something of the splendour, and many hoped to turn the occasion to good account for themselves.

Bert eagerly gleaned all the information he could on the subject. He likened as people talked of the decorations, the illuminations, the grand stands for the spectators, the horses and carriages, the royal personages who were to appear, and all the pomp and show which were to mark the occasion. The thought of it excited and bewildered him. If only Prin were with him, what a time they would have! The Princess would know what to do. She would manage to see everything. No one was more clever than the Princess in pushing her way to the front and securing the best possible position when there was anything to be seen or gained. Bert was profoundly conscious of his inferiority to her in this respect.

Another new interest had come into Bert's life, and shared, with the Jubilee, his thoughts. This was the landlady's new lodger. He took possession of the room in the area three days after Prin's departure. He was an old sailor, and earned his living by bill-sticking and kindred occupations of a somewhat precarious nature. Apparently he was poor, as were all the inhabitants of that street; but his poverty was not, like that of most of the dwellers there, caused by drink. Watching the new lodger with a boy's keen curiosity, which lets nothing escape it, Bert soon observed that he never entered any of the public-houses in the neighbourhood, and that he drank nothing stronger than tea or ginger-beer. This was enough to distinguish him from every other man with whom Bert was acquainted.

Though he had brought nothing with him to the room that could be called furniture, the man had a few possessions on which he seemed to set great value. Among these was a great black cat, between which and his master there seemed to be a perfect understanding, and which was evidently very dear to him. Bert had never seen so fine a cat. The cats belonging to that street were a poor, half-starved race, with the mean and treacherous habits fostered by ill-treatment. This was a noble animal, with a coat as black as jet and as glossy as satin. He was supremely conscious of his superiority, and bore himself with much dignity. Nor would he suffer any familiarity; for when Bert once ventured to touch him, the cat instantly arched his back, spat fiercely, and showed a formidable set of claws. But with his master he was very different. Bert, peering down from the street between the railings, noted how the cat would spring on the man's shoulder and rub his head lovingly against his cheek. And whatever his master was doing, the cat was sure to be close beside him, and evidently he shared all his meals.

The stranger also possessed several books, and from what Bert saw, he judged him to be fond of reading. There was one book, a somewhat bulky, well-worn book, which was constantly in his hands. He would sit reading this by the open window with his cat perched on his shoulder, and the noises of the street did not seem to disturb him, nor did he appear aware of the little boy who stood so often by the railings, furtively watching his every movement.

Like most sailors, this man was very cleanly in his habits. Bert was amazed to see how clean he made his room, scrubbing the floor and polishing the window till they looked as Bert had never seen them look. Then he pasted clean paper over the soiled and torn wall-paper, and put up a bright picture here and there, and did a little carpentering where it was necessary.

"It looks like another room," thought Bert, as he caught glimpses through the open window of the improvement within; "Prin would not know it, if she saw it now." Then he sighed as he thought of Prin, who had been gone so long.

The new lodger seemed to have no friend save his cat. Not that he was unfriendly in his ways. He was ready enough to bid his neighbours "good day," and to exchange a kind word with them; but his manner of life was so different from theirs that they instinctively held aloof from him. But, if lonely, he was not unhappy. He was generally singing as he tidied his room or cooked his bit of food. Sometimes Bart caught the words he was singing.

"Then he has got a friend," thought Bert. "It seemed as if he were as much left to himself as I am. I did not want a friend as long as Prin was with me, but now—"

And Bert sighed. He would have liked the old sailor to be his friend, but he was far too shy to make the first advances.

One day Bert heard the landlady tell Mrs. Kay that the old sailor was going away.

"Now then, what business is it of yours, Mr. Sharp-ears?" asked the landlady. "I wasn't a-speaking to you. But don't you make no mistake. He ain't giving up his room. He's just going away for a day or two—to Liverpool, he tells me."

"Early to-morrow morning. He's a rare hand at getting up early. He's up at four most mornings, and off to his work."

"That's how it is I never see him, I suppose," said Mrs. Kay. "Funny, ain't it? I've never set eyes on your new lodger yet."

"Well, he ain't much to look at, but he's a good 'un," said the landlady; "pays his rent reg'lar to the day, which is more than many folks do."

The words had a significance which made Mrs. Kay uneasy. She remembered that her rent was over-due. When she was "on the drink," she was wont to forget that there was such a thing as rent.

"There he is Mrs. Kay," he whispered. "Look, if you ain't seen him, there he is."

Mrs. Kay glanced into the street. A man stood at the top of the area steps—a bundle of papers was strapped to his back, and he carried a paste-pot and a big brush. He had paused for a moment to adjust his burden ere he descended to his room. Mrs. Kay had a good view of him. The next moment she staggered back into the passage, her face wearing such a startled look that Bert exclaimed in alarm,—

For answer, she dealt him a stinging box on the ears, then vanished into her room, slamming the door behind her.

The landlady laughed at Bert's discomfiture. "She's a queer one, she is," she said, "but it serves you right for asking impertinent questions. You want to know too much, you do."

Very early the next morning, Bert, sleeping in his corner under the stairs, was roused by the noise of the area gate swinging on its hinges. Noiselessly, on bare feet, he sped to the house door, which was never locked—for the lodgers came in at all hours of the night—and opening it a few inches peeped out. It was as he thought, the sailor was departing on his trip to Liverpool. He was wearing the blue pilot coat and peaked cap which he usually reserved for Sundays, and he carried in his hand a neatly-made bundle.

There was a fascination in watching the ways of this man, and the boy was sorry to think that some days must elapse ere he saw him again.

"I wonder if he's gone to see that friend he's always singing about," he said to himself. Then a grand idea came like a sudden inspiration to Bert. What if he were to go to see the Princess! If she would not come to him, why should he not go to her? If only he had money enough, no doubt a train would take him to the place where she was. Thrilled with excitement at the thought, Bert hastened to count his precious hoard. His coppers amounted to eleven-pence half-penny—almost a shilling! Surely, if he went on saving, he would soon have money enough to pay his fare to Hampshire. The idea acted on him like a stimulant. He rose at once and began to don his ragged clothes. He would lose no time in seeking to earn money. He hurried away, first to a coffee stall to get his breakfast, and then to secure his papers.

Fortune smiled on him this morning. He was lucky enough to make sixpence ere it was time for him to go to school.

When he came back to the house at mid-day, he found a crowd of children gathered at the top of the area steps. The cause of their gathering was soon evident. Loud and distressful mews resounded from the sailor's room. It was clear that his cat, shut up within, was both hungry and indignant.

"Did you ever hear anything like that cat?" cried the landlady, as she stood at her door, to the assembled neighbours. "It drives me frantic to hear it, and there's no getting to the creature, for he's locked the door and taken the key with him, and the shutters are fastened on the inside."

"What a shame to leave a poor dumb animal like that! He did ought to know better than to do such a thing," was the opinion expressed by more than one.

"Oh, as for that, he did not mean to do it. He must have forgot it just at the last, for he asked me to look after his cat, and he gave me money to buy it milk and meat. He'll be as mad as mad when he knows what he's done."

Bert knew that this was true. The lodger was far too fond of his cat to willingly cause it to suffer. Bert ran down the steps into the area, and standing by the door said, "Poor puss! Poor puss!" several times in encouraging tones. The cat's cries ceased for a few moments, then quickly began again, louder than ever.

A happy thought occurred to Bert. He remembered that the door was ill-fitting, and that a wide crevice at the top used to let in many a cruel draught upon him and Prin. If he stood on a chair, he might be able to drop some pieces of meat through the aperture.

He confided his plan to the landlady, and she helped him to carry it out. The lodger had nailed a piece of cloth along the top of the doorway to keep out the draught; but this Bert succeeded in tearing away, and then there was room for him to push the pieces of meat through. He soon heard sounds that told him that the cat was snapping them up as they fell. In this way he got a good meal. He still continued to mew, for he missed his master and disliked the confinement; but gradually his cries grew fainter, till at last they ceased.

"I suppose he has gone to sleep," thought Bert. "Well, I'm glad I remembered that hole. I can keep him from starving anyhow."

When he came back from selling his papers late that evening, he found that the cat needed his supper, and was announcing the fact by loud and piercing mews. Bert hastened to beg some food for him from the landlady, and then proceeded to feed him as before. He was standing on a chair, stretching upward on tip-toe in order to supply the cat's wants, when he was startled by a voice which said:

Bert started, and almost fell off the chair. He could hardly believe his eyes when he saw the old sailor descending the steps.

"I'm feeding your cat," he said; "I—I didn't know you was coming home to-night."

"Nor did I mean to," he said. "It's just my cat that has brought me back. I can't think how I came to forget him. I couldn't bear to think of the poor beastie being shut up here without food or drink."

"Well, I never!" exclaimed the landlady, leaning over from the doorstep above. "To think of your coming back, all the way from Liverpool, Mr. Corney, just for the sake of an old cat! And you meant to stay there three days!"

The old sailor smiled, and made no attempt to defend his conduct as he advanced to where Bert was stationed.

CHAPTER VI

BERT felt rather shamefaced as he scrambled off the chair and drew it on one side, that the sailor might enter the room. But the sight he saw as the door opened made him forget his self-consciousness. The cat sprang towards his master with a cry that was almost human, so clearly did it express delight. Then he began rubbing his head and body against the old man's legs, purring loudly the while. Finally the cat sprang on his master's shoulders and rubbed his head lovingly against his check.

"Good old Cetywayo," said the old man tenderly; "you're better than most Christians to forgive me thus. 'Twas a scurvy trick to leave you shut up here. The truth is, I clean forgot you. You slept so soundly under the bed that I never thought of you till after the train started. Then when I remembered that I must have locked you up here, I hadn't a moment's peace. I did not think that you would find such a kind friend." And he turned to look for Bert.

"Come in, boy; come in. You must make the acquaintance of my cat, since you've been so good to him. Ah, Cetywayo does not like strangers," as the cat arched his back and retreated at the sight of Bert; "but he'll soon be friendly with you, if you treat him well. I've often seen you looking down on us; but I didn't want you to come any nearer, for boys are not friends to cats as a rule. But I see now that I wronged you."

"I like your cat," said Bert timidly; "but Prin does not like cats. I brought a kitten home once, but she would not let me keep it."

And presently Bert was telling him all his history, and the stranger learned with surprise that the boy and his sister had occupied that room before he came.

"Well, if I'd known that you would look after my cat, I need not have troubled to come back to-night. It's a long way to go and come in one day."

"Why, yes, a good bit farther I should say; but it's wonderful how them trains whirl you along. Now, I'm going to have some supper, and you must have some with me. Yes, yes, that's only fair, since you've been feeding my cat."

"No matter. You had the trouble of feeding him," said the old man, liking the boy the better for the acknowledgment.

Bert watched with interest as the old man made up his fire and set the kettle on it, preparatory to making some cocoa.

"Did you go to Liverpool to see a friend, Mr.—?" he hesitated, not being sure of the name.

"I'm called Corney," said the sailor; "not that it's my real name, but it does as well as any other. My mother, who was a wonderful hand at Bible names, called me Cornelius Theophilus, and my mates soon shortened that into 'Corney.' No, I didn't go to Liverpool to see a friend; I went to try to get some news of my sister; but I don't suppose it would have been any good if I'd stayed longer. All who knew her and me have disappeared."

"Yes, I had a sister; and I don't know now whether she's living or dead. Her name was Priscilla. That's in the Bible, too, you know."

Bert did not know much about the Bible, nor was he desirous of such knowledge; but he was full of curiosity respecting this lodger, and anxious to make the most of this opportunity of gratifying it.

"No," said Mr. Corney, looking sad and shaking his head; "I don't believe I have a friend left in the world."

And then, as the old sailor looked at him with a puzzled expression, the boy tried to sing, in his shrill little voice:—

"Ah, that Friend!" he said. "I did not know what you meant. Ah, yes, I've that Friend, and he that has Him can do without any other."

"'I've found a Friend, oh, such a Friend!
He bled, He died, to save me;
And not alone the gift of life,
But His own self He gave me.'

Bert's face had suddenly taken a serious, thoughtful expression. "I don't know," he said.

"Yes, He died that we might be saved from sin. Was not that love? Have we another friend like Him?"

Bert shook his head. He was silent for a minute. Then he ventured to put a question.

"Sin!" said Mr. Corney, surprised at the question. "Sin is the worst thing in the world. It is that which makes all the misery of this world."

"You know," he said; "surely, boy, you know the difference between right and wrong?"

Bert nodded. He had once received a beating from his father for telling a lie. He knew how the law punished the other offences.

"Well, those are sins. And yet sin means more than that, for one may do none of those things and yet be a great sinner. Paul called himself the chief of sinners, and yet he was no law-breaker. Really, I never thought till now how difficult it is to say what sin means, and yet, I know! I know! Sin, it seems to me, is just loving ourselves instead of God, and doing what pleases ourselves instead of what pleases God."

"Oh, in many ways. There's a little voice in our hearts that warns us when we are going to do what is wrong; and then there is Jesus Christ to show us what God would have us to be. He is our example, our copy, you know. You write copies at school, don't you?"

"And there's a fine bit of writing at the top of the page, and you have to look at that and try to make your writing like it?"

"Well, Jesus is our great copy. We look at Him and see what our lives should be. This Book tells us about Him, you know."

And the old sailor laid his hand on the well-worn volume Bert had often seen him reading.

"The Gospels are just one grand lesson in love," he said. "What made Jesus so different from every other man? I take it was just that His heart was overflowing with love to God and love to man. That's why He was the sinless One, in my opinion. If our hearts were full of love to others, we could not do them wrong; and if we loved God perfectly, we could not break His commandments. But our love is so different from God's. There was one I thought I loved, but I grieved her sore. Ay, lad, I should know what sin is, if anybody does, for I've been an awful sinner."

Bert looked at the old man in astonishment. His voice had quavered as he spoke, and it seemed to the boy that there were tears in his eyes.

"Why, Mr. Corney," Bert exclaimed, "I shouldn't think that you had been so bad!"

"Ay, but I was bad," said Mr. Corney, still speaking with emotion. "I broke my mother's heart by my sin. She was so fond of her children. There were only the two of us—my sister and I. Priscilla was always well-behaved, but I—I brought my mother sore sorrow and disgrace, and then I ran away to sea, and I never saw her again, for a year later she died."

The old man paused, as if the recollection was too painful for him to dwell upon. While he talked, he had been spreading the table for their simple meal. The kettle was boiling now, so he proceeded to make the cocoa.

Bert brought a hearty appetite to the table. He had not enjoyed a meal so much since Prin left him. He felt that he had gained a friend in the old sailor. When the time came to say "good-night," Cetywayo too showed himself friendly, for he suffered the boy to stroke his head without arching his back and spitting. Bert lingered for a moment on the doorstep ere he crept into the corner where he slept.

Many persons were in the street on this warm night. The sound of drunken revelry came from the public-house close by. A crowd had gathered about a house on the opposite side of the street to witness a fierce dispute between a husband and wife. At another time Bert would have rushed into the thick of the crowd to see what was going on; but to-night he felt no curiosity on the subject.

He stood looking up at the clear, calm sky above his head, studded with stars. How peaceful and far-away heaven looked! How noisy and ugly earth was! As he gazed into the grey vault, the boy had a momentary consciousness of a vast, unfathomable Love bending over him. But to the west, a great black cloud was slowly rising above the houses. Bert watched it as it gradually rose and spread, till it seemed to fill all the sky, and the stars were blotted out.

As he passed Mrs. Kay's door, he saw that a light was burning within, and he could hear her moving about, with a noise as though she were lifting heavy things.

"She's not drinking to-night, then," he said to himself. He crept into bed, and was soon sound asleep.

Early in the morning, he was wakened by a great commotion in the passage. Emerging from his hole to see what it meant, he perceived that the place was strewn with Mrs. Kay's belongings, and that a cart stood at the door, waiting to receive them. Tumbling as quickly as possible into his clothes, he ran to learn more.

"I'm sorry for that," said Bert, who bore no malice on account of harsh words and blows received from her in the past. "Where are you going?"

"That's no business of yours," she replied. "Just hold your tongue, can't you? I've enough to do without your bothering me with questions."

"Yes, you may, if you'll be careful," she said, somewhat mollified; here, "you may carry these books out to the cart."

Bert looked curiously at the pile of shabby books she gave him. On the top lay a small old Bible. As he carried it out, the breeze lifted the old, broken cover, almost carrying it away, and Bert caught sight of a name written on the fly-leaf, "Priscilla Grant, from her loving mother."

"Pris—cilla! That sounds like the name Mr. Corney said was his sister's. How odd that it should be in this book! I wonder if it's Mrs. Kay's?"

Mrs. Kay's possessions were not very numerous. In a short time they were all packed into the cart, and having given up the key of her room to the landlady, she took her departure, walking beside the cart.

"Then it's more than I am," said Mrs. Brown, as she glanced round the dusty, littered room her lodger had vacated. "She's good riddance, I say, for I never knew when I should get her money, and she was a nasty-tempered woman."

"I'm sure I don't know," returned the landlady; "that's no business of mine. She's paid me what she owed, and that's all I care about."

CHAPTER VII

IT was the morning of the 21st of June. Bert had risen almost as soon as it was light, and, having made very special ablutions ere he donned the ragged garments, which had anything but a festive appearance, he was going to supply himself with a goodly number of the papers and programmes for which he hoped to find a ready sale that day. But ere he started, he stood for a moment at the area railings, and looked down into the sailor's room. Early as it was, Mr. Corney was astir. Bert saw him busy brushing his boots, with Cetywayo perched on his left shoulder, making the work more difficult, though it went on briskly notwithstanding, to the accompaniment of one of the sailor's favourite hymns.

"And so are you," returned the boy. "Are you going to see the Jubilee, Mr. Corney?"

"Ay, I'm going to see what I can see. Such a day will never come again in my life. I mean to have a look at Queen Victoria, anyway. It's years and years since I last sighted her. It was in London too—the first time that ever I came to London from Scotland."

"From Scotland!" exclaimed Bert, in surprise. "Are you Scotch, then, Mr. Corney?"

"How strange I never thought of that!" said Bert. "Now you say so, I notice that you speak very much like Mrs. Kay."

"Why, she used to live in the first front room; but she shifted a fortnight ago. You could tell she was Scotch directly she opened her mouth."

"And you can't find me out so quickly? Ah, well, I suppose I have lost a bit of my Scotch tongue, knocking about the world. But a Scot I am, and a loyal one too, for I mean to see the Queen to-day. It's thirty years since I saw her, and her family has grown considerably since then. Such an array of Princes and Princesses there'll be in the procession to-day as never was seen before, they tell me."

Then he consoled himself with the thought that, if only he made a nice sum of money this day, he would start on the morrow for Hampshire. "And won't the Princess be surprised and pleased to see me!" he thought.

"Well, good-bye, Mr. Corney; I'm off," he shouted. "I hope you'll get a good place and see 'everythink.'"

The dreary street in which Bert lived lay at no great distance from the stately squares and crescents of West London. Laden with papers, he soon found his way to the Marble Arch, and taking up his station there, did a brisk trade amid the ever-swelling stream of persons which swept by, intent on gaining a good position from which to view the show.

London wore an entirely new aspect on that brilliant morning. Its sombre streets, with their prosaic monotony of outline and hue, were transformed by vivid touches of colour and artistic decorative effects, till they glowed with a beauty few Oriental cities could surpass. Everywhere there was a lavish display of flags, bunting, floral decorations, and emblazoned mottoes proclaiming a nation's love and loyalty.

Early as was the hour, the streets were full of people, for many had risen with the lark, and not a few, busied with final preparations, had been astir all night. Already the church bells were making a merry din, and giving the keynote of the engagements of that festive day. Carriages, cabs, and omnibuses went by, carrying people to their chosen places along the route. Every minute the crowds increased. All seemed in good temper. The true spirit of jubilation was abroad.

Bert's spirits rose as he saw the signs of general festivity. He, too, grew excited, and his shrill little voice rose eagerly in the cry: "Now then, here you are! Special edition. Corr'ct account of the Jub'lee. Order of the processions. List of Roy'lties. All you want to know, for one penny."

Faster than he could have hoped, his papers disappeared. Some who bought them looked pityingly at the boy's odd little figure in the short, tight, ragged jacket which he had outgrown, small though he was for his years. They noted how thin and white was the little face, lit up by those eager eyes. But Bert had no pity for himself at that moment. As he dropped the pennies into the pocket of his ragged coat—there was no hole in the pocket; he had seen to that—he felt as proud and elate as a man who is making his fortune. He was getting quite rich, and his riches opened up to him such a joyous prospect. To-morrow he would be off to Hampshire to see the Princess.

There! The last paper had gone. Now he was free to go and see what he could, and take his share in the excitement of the day. He had already decided whither he would turn his steps. From the Marble Arch to Hyde Park Corner was not very far. Bert had been told that here the finest possible view of the procession might be had, and, undeterred by the crowds already pressing in that direction, he too made for this point of vantage.

Although it still wanted more than an hour to the time when the procession was to start, there were thousands of men and women, boys and girls, packed together on the broad pavements. The roadway, too, was blocked with vehicles. The squeezing was intense, the heat stiffing, yet Bert dauntlessly pushed forward into the crowd, and continued to work his way towards the front. He wanted to see what passed, and he would see nothing if he remained at the back of the pavement behind lines and lines of people.

In vain people pushed him back and told him to keep behind. Bert was small and thin and wiry, and he pushed his way through every slightest opening, and got the better of persons bigger than himself with a skill which excited the ire of some and the amusement of others. Yet Bert would have had a poor chance of seeing the procession had not a woman who blocked his way suddenly fallen forward, unconscious from the heat and pressure. Instantly there was a cry for the ambulance officers. Some of these came forward to remove the sufferer, and in the hustling that resulted from the disturbance Bert found himself carried to the very edge of the pavement, close to a mounted constable, who, seeing what a little chap he was, moved his horse a pace or two, so as not to intercept his view.

Just as Bert was congratulating himself on his good luck, there passed before him the stretcher on which the policemen had placed the woman who had swooned. To Bert's consternation, he recognised in the still, purple, apparently lifeless visage of the woman, the face of Mrs. Kay. He uttered a cry, and would have run after the ambulance, had not the mounted constable called to him sharply to come back. Bert watched as the policemen bore their burden across the broad road, now clear of all traffic, for the procession was momentarily expected, to the ambulance station below the arch at the top of Constitution Hill. Poor Mrs. Kay! Was she dead? Had the sun's heat killed her? For Bert had heard of people dying of sunstroke.

But now there rose from the direction of the Green Park the sound of swelling voices raised in joyous acclamation. Louder and louder rose the cries, and with a thrill of strange emotion, which brought tears to his eyes, Bert realized that the supreme moment had arrived. The Queen was coming!

In a few moments, the splendid cavalcade appeared. When the Queen came, attended by her magnificent body-guard of princes, the public enthusiasm knew no bounds. Foreign royalties were all very well; but here was the one whom her people loved, and whom they had gathered in such numbers to greet with every sign of loyalty and rejoicing. Next in interest to the Queen came the members of her family. Bert's shrill little voice had shouted lustily for the Queen; but as the carriages containing the princesses went slowly by he was too lost in admiration of their gentle looks and pretty dresses—the laces and satins and furbelows, which to his childish imagination suggested lives of unlimited luxury and enjoyment—to think of cheering.

"There's princesses for you!" he said to himself. "They're the real thing, they are; and yet if my Princess was rigged up like that, I guess she'd look just as well."

And there passed before his mind a picture of Prin, as she had appeared in her old, shabby frock and broken shoes. Then he remembered how different she had looked when she went away with the nurse.

"But she'll get shabby again when she comes back," he thought with a sigh. "We shall never get enough money to buy nice clothes."

But now the last carriage belonging to the procession had gone by. The police relaxed the restraint under which they had held the crowd. To the relief of every one, the great pressure was at an end. People were free to wander across the road and into the Green Park. Bert made use of his liberty to run to the ambulance station and inquire for Mrs. Kay.

"Oh, she's coming round," said the policeman of whom he made inquiry. "What do you know about her? Is she your mother?"

Bert shook his head, and explained that she was only an acquaintance, lately a neighbour, whereupon the policeman pushed him with little ceremony out of the way; but the boy had caught sight of Mrs. Kay, lying with her eyes closed, and that purplish tint still on her face, and it struck him that she looked very bad.

He turned towards the Green Park; but as he passed through the gateway, some one touched him on the shoulder. He looked round, and to his surprise found Mr. Corney beside him.

"What, you here, Mr. Corney!" he exclaimed. "It seems as if I was to see people I know. There's poor Mrs. Kay in there." And he pointed towards the little room in the base of the arch where the ambulance patients were sheltered.

"Mrs. Kay?" repeated Mr. Corney, in momentary bewilderment, till he remembered when he had heard mention of this individual before. "Was it she they carried in there just before the procession came? I saw her face as they went by, and, do you know, she reminded me of my sister! A very different sort of person, of course—not too respectable, I am afraid—older and stouter than Priscilla would be too, but still like her. It's strange how one sees likenesses sometimes."

Bert nodded; but he was not paying great heed to what the old sailor said. There was so much to divert him in all he saw.

In the relief of being able to move freely, the crowd was waxing merry. Vendors of fruit and sherbet had come to the fore, and little picnic parties were being formed here and there on the grass. Carriages too, most of them empty, were passing by, for the road was open again for traffic for a little while.

Bert became aware that he had eaten nothing since a very early hour, and that he was parched with thirst. He resolved to spend one of his halfpence on a glass of sherbet, and was turning to look for the seller of this cooling refreshment, when his attention was attracted by an open carriage which was driving towards the Park.

There were several prettily dressed children in the carriage, accompanied by a woman, who appeared to be their nurse. On the back seat was a girl older than the other children, and more quietly dressed than they were. Her complexion was very fair, and long golden locks fell over her shoulders. Bert's gaze was instantly arrested by this girl; she was so like Prin. He had no idea, however, that it was his sister, and could hardly believe his eyes when, as the carriage passed, the girl turned in his direction with a movement of the head familiar to him, and he saw that it was indeed Prin.

"Prin! Prin!" he cried aloud the next moment, and darted after the carriage, heedless of danger to himself.

Prin heard the cry and looked back. She recognized the ragged, dusty, deplorable little form pursuing the carriage. For a moment her eyes met those of her brother, and he knew that she saw him. But suddenly her face grew very red. She turned round quickly and looked in the opposite direction.

Instantly Bert understood. The Princess did not wish to see him. She was ashamed to call him her brother. The thought smote him with a pang of sharpest pain. He fell back at once, heedless of the perils of the busy road. A mounted policeman, suspecting the boy of begging to the annoyance of those within the carriage, was following at his heels.

Bert's sudden halt took him by surprise. He tried to pull up his horse, but there was not time. The animal reared wildly, but struck Bert as it reared. The boy fell senseless on the road.

Again the ambulance stretcher was in requisition. Bert was placed in it, and carried at once to St. George's Hospital, for it was feared that his hurt was serious.

CHAPTER VIII

BERT was not likely to die. His worst injury was a broken rib, and that having been skilfully set, he was likely to do well. He did not suffer acute pain; yet the boy was miserable enough as he lay on his little bed in the hospital ward. He was enduring pangs which he could not describe, and which the best of nurses could not have relieved.

Shakespeare pronounced it "sharper than a serpent's tooth" to have a thankless child, and the sting of the ingratitude that sins against love is under all circumstances hard to bear. Bert could not have put his feelings into words, but his heart ached at the remembrance of how Prin had turned from him. It seemed cruel of her, for she must have known how he had suffered from loneliness and heartache since she went away.

"I could never have treated her so," Bert said to himself; "no, not if I had become the greatest swell that ever was."

It appeared that the Princess had risen in the world. How came she to be driving in that grand carriage with those smartly-dressed children? Had she left Hampshire for good?

"Oh, she might have written and told me," groaned Bert; "and to-day I meant to go down there to see her!"

The boy grew restless and feverish under the strain of his mental trouble. Mr. Corney, who had been greatly distressed to see him borne off to the hospital, and quite at a loss to understand how the accident had happened, had quickly followed him thither, and he came again and again to see him. But he, kind though he was, could not enter into Bert's state of mind. He was convinced that the boy was under a delusion regarding his sister. It was not really Prin, but some one very like her whom he had seen. Bert shook his head, and pressed his lips firmly together at the suggestion.

"It was Prin, and she saw me," he said; and it was impossible to persuade him otherwise.

"Don't you remember that I saw some one very like my sister?" he asked. "And yet it was not my sister."

"It may have been," said Bert. "You have not seen her for a long time; she may have altered."

"Oh no; it is impossible that that could have been my sister. Priscilla was a most respectable woman, and that poor woman looked like a person who drank. Besides, you said you knew her. You called her Mrs. Kay."

"Oh yes, I forgot. Of course it was Mrs. Kay," said Bert. But he was no less convinced that he had seen Prin.

"People do change, though," he remarked, somewhat irrelevantly. "I never could have believed that Prin would have looked on me and turned away like that."

"Ay," said old Corney, "it was not like a sister, and that's what makes me think you must be mistaken. Well, there's one Friend will never treat you like that, Bert," and he began to sing softly his favourite hymn,—

The old sailor's face brightened with a beaming smile as he shook his head and said,—

"Not He. Neither our rags nor our sins can separate us from the love of Christ. He is not ashamed to call us His brothers."

The thought dropped like balm on Bert's wounded spirit. Long after Mr. Corney had gone, the refrain of his hymn,—

Rang on in Bert's heart. That night, for the first time since his accident, he enjoyed sound, refreshing sleep.

After that, his condition daily improved. When he had been a fortnight in the hospital, he was allowed to sit up, and soon he was able to move about the ward. One day he received a great surprise. Some changes were being made in the arrangement of the beds, and there was wheeled into the ward from an adjoining one a woman who looked very ill, though she evidently belonged to the class of convalescents. Turning to look at her as she went by, Bert recognised, to his astonishment, Mrs. Kay. He watched while the nurse placed her in an easy chair and arranged her pillows comfortably; then, when she was left alone, he walked across the ward and stood beside her.

She started nervously at the sound of his voice, for she was very weak, and when she spoke her words were not gracious.

"Goodness me, boy! No more did I know that you was here; but that's no reason why you should startle me so. I've been very ill, and the least thing goes through me."

"I've been ill, too," said Bert, with some importance. "I met with an accident on Jubilee Day, and they brought me in here."

"Why, I was taken ill at the Jubilee, too," said Mrs. Kay; "I had a kind of a fit, and they could not bring me round, so I was carried to the hospital. I've been awfully bad in my head since; but I'm better now, though I don't feel good for much. No more Jubilees for me. It was the heat and the squeezing that did it."

But as she spoke Mrs. Kay knew well that it was not the heat alone that had caused her illness. Her intemperate habits were accountable for it. One of the medical men had told her this very plainly, and had, moreover, warned her that if she did not give up the drink, her life would soon come to an end. And Mrs. Kay was very depressed and miserable. She shrank from the thought of illness and death, yet she felt powerless to resist the wretched craving, which even now possessed her, for the stimulant in which she had so long indulged.

"Oh, I suppose so," she said, with a heavy sigh. "They're going to send me home in a day or two."

"That's no business of yours," said she sharply; "it's not much of a home, I'm thinking, for there's no one in it to care whether I die or live."

"Yes, he died many years ago. He was a ship's carpenter at Liverpool. Ah, if you'd seen the home I had when I married—but there! Don't let me think of that. I'm low enough now; but I was once in very different circumstances."

"Did you ever have a brother?" asked Bert, who seemed to be in the mood for asking questions.

"Yes, I'd a brother once, but he turned out a good-for-nothing fellow. He ran away to sea, and broke my mother's heart. Then the ship he was on board of went down, and he with her, and I thought to myself that it was good riddance of bad rubbish; but now—now—I don't know—"

Mrs. Kay's voice faltered; in vain she tried to steady it; then to Bert's consternation her head sank forward on her hands, and she sobbed aloud.

"Nothing," she sobbed, "only I'm thinking there wouldn't be much to choose between us now. I never meant to be bad, but things were so against me. My husband died, and my two little children died, and I was left all alone, with no one to care what I did, and so I became what I am."

But if Mrs. Kay heard his words, she did not understand them. She was ignorant of the love of Jesus, although she could have answered any question as to the doctrines of Christianity. To her Jesus was only a Name, the chief factor in a formula, and her very knowledge of the truth concerning Him seemed to close her heart against Him.

"Mrs. Kay," said Bert, whose love of asking questions was not to be checked, "did you ever know any one of the name of Priscilla?"

"Priscilla!" she exclaimed in astonishment, "why that's my own name! Priscilla Grant I was before I married. Whatever made you think of that?"

Bert did not explain what had caused him to ask the question. Indeed, he was too much surprised at her reply to find anything to say. Such an extraordinary idea had come into his head. What if Mrs. Kay were Mr. Corney's sister after all! Suppose she were his sister, and he had not known her!

Bert fervently hoped that Mr. Corney would come in ere Mrs. Kay was taken back to her own ward. But the thing he so much wished did not come to pass. Contrary to his expectation, the old sailor did not appear that afternoon, and Bert feared that ere the next "visitors' day," Mrs. Kay would have left the hospital.

It was so. Two days later she came into his ward to bid him good-bye. She looked wretchedly ill and tremulous. Indeed, she declared that she felt "all of a shake," and far more fit to be in bed than to be going abroad.

"But they say that I'm better, and shall get on, all right now, if I'm careful, so I suppose it must be so; but I can't help wishing I'd died, for I'm sure my life isn't worth living."

And remembering what he had seen of her life when they had lived under the same roof, Bert was inclined to agree with her; but he was very sorry for her, nevertheless, and would have said something to cheer her if he could. Nothing occurred to him, however, except to say, "Don't talk that way, Mrs. Kay. You'll feel better when you get home. I'll come and see you when I get out of the hospital, if you'll let me."

But she shook her head at the suggestion, and though she bade Bert good-bye with more kindness of manner then she often displayed, she departed without telling him where she lived.

On the following afternoon, the ward was full of visitors, and Bert looked for his friend, Mr. Corney, to make his appearance, but for a while he was disappointed. In despair, he was beginning to persuade himself that his friend must be ill, when, almost at the expiration of the visitors' time, the old sailor appeared at the door of the ward.

Bert uttered an exclamation of joy as he caught sight of him; but as his friend drew nearer, the boy's feelings changed. For something had evidently gone wrong with Mr. Corney. He did not look like himself. His cheerful, beaming expression was gone.

He looked pale and worn and heavy-hearted. His very walk was different. He had passed for an old man before, but a brisk and sprightly one. Now, however, he seemed aged, and bowed by some infirmity, mental or physical.

"No, no, boy, I'm all right. There is nothing the matter with me. I've had a shock, that is all. How are you?"

"Oh, I am getting on very well. I still have to wear the bandages, you see. When they are taken off, I shall be allowed to go away; but I don't want to go. I like being here."

"Yes, yes," said the old man mournfully, "you might be in a worse place. There are many worse places in the world than this."

"I know there are," said Bert; "but, Mr. Corney, I wish you would tell me what is the matter. I am sure you are in trouble."

"So I am, Bert, so I am," said the old man, shaking his head; "there's no denying it; but it won't make it better to talk of it."

But Bert could not be satisfied without knowing his friend's trouble, and it may be that Mr. Corney was secretly longing for sympathy, for the boy soon won his confidence.

"Bert," he said, "I've found my sister; but I've found her in such a way that I could almost wish I had not found her. But God forbid that I should say that! No, let me rather thank God that I have found her; but it's a bitter disappointment, an awful grief, to find her such an one as she is."

"How did you find her, Mr. Corney?" asked Bert, after a pause so long that he feared the old man was not going to tell him any more.

"Oh," groaned Mr. Corney, "it's a shame even to speak of it! But it was like this. It was very hot last evening, and I went out for a bit of a stroll. I had got into one of the bigger streets, when I saw a crowd at a corner near a public-house. I went across to see what had happened, and there was a woman leaning against the railings—drunk. I never can bear to see a drunken woman. It's bad enough for a man to get drunk; but for a woman, it's an awful fall. Well, when I came to look at her, this was the very woman I saw on Jubilee Day—the one that was taken away on a stretcher, you know."

"Ay, that was what you called her—her name is really Mackay. I thought her like my sister then; but oh! The horror of it! She is my sister—my sister, Priscilla Mackay, whom I left seventeen years ago, a respectable, well-living woman, the wife of a good Christian man. Oh, I can't tell you what a woman Pris was—a clean, clever housewife—a wee bit pernicketty in her ways, and somewhat sharp of her tongue; but one who was respected by her neighbours, and went to church twice every Sabbath, and was a pattern mother to her two wee bairns. She was ashamed enough of me; she shook me off as a disgrace; and I never meant to go near her again, till the Lord changed my heart. And, strangely enough, intoxicated though she was, she knew me before I knew her, and she cried out to me, calling me by my name. And what do you think she said?

"'Ah, Corney,' she cried, 'it's my turn now. I'm the one that's going to the bad. The Bible says that the first shall be last, and that's how it is with me.'"

"I am not surprised," said Bert; "I began to think that Mrs. Kay was your sister."

"Ah, you don't understand. Even now it seems impossible that it can be so—that Pris can have come to that."

"It's just the drink that has done it," said Bert, speaking with a wisdom beyond his years, born of painful experience. "There's nothing like drink for dragging people down. It brought my father to his grave."

"Say, rather, it is sin," said old Corney. "Sin of any kind means ruin, sorrow, death. I see that now as I never did before."

"Nay, it was rather sin that made the devil; at least, I remember hearing a preacher in Scotland say that it was nothing but sin that made the devil a devil."

Bert was silent for a few moments, his thoughts being such as could not readily find expression.

"At home with me," he said; "I've hired a room for her in the same house. Her own poor things had been sold for the rent while she was in the hospital. Ah, poor soul! Poor soul!"

"Still!" repeated Mr. Corney. "Why, I love her more than ever I did before. How can I help it, when I see her so miserable? And was not I just such a sinner myself, and did not Jesus love me and save me? And He can save her. But I must be going. It is not well to leave her long alone."

And Mr. Corney went away, leaving Bert with his heart full of a new, strange wonder and pain. Long after Mr. Corney had gone, Bert mused over the sad story he had told. He thought of it in the quiet of midnight, when most of the patients were asleep in the dimly-lighted ward, and no sound broke the stillness save an occasional groan from some sleepless sufferer, or the light movements of the nurse as she ministered to the same.

Grave thoughts were in the boy's mind at that hour, thoughts which gradually quickened into dread. His heart turned to Prin, with a sorrowful longing in which there was now no resentment. He was ashamed that he had felt so bitterly towards her. His thoughts grew more and more oppressive. The dark side of life presented itself to his imagination, and he could not shake off the horror of it. He remembered his father's prayer, and the meaning of it was clear now. Suddenly he sat up in bed, and, with clasped hands, breathed forth in a fervent whisper the words:—

CHAPTER IX

BERT'S cure was complete. The outside bandages were removed. He was pronounced fit to go home.

The nurse wondered what kind of home he had, as she helped him to don the ragged garments he had worn when he was brought into the hospital. She was sorry to part with her good little patient. He was still more sorry to leave her.

"Yes, older and better—altogether different. You'd never believe how clever Prin is, and pretty too—I call her the Princess."

"I should think she is," said Bert stoutly; "when she is at home," he added, as an afterthought.

The claims of duty prevented the nurse from pursuing her inquiries. She hastily bid Bert good-bye, and he walked away with a very serious face, striving hard to keep the tears from his eyes.

A pleasant sense of freedom came to him, however, when he found himself outside the walls of the hospital. After all it was good to be able to move about and go where he listed. Bert was not conscious of weakness. A broken bone is not like a disease; he had eaten and slept well during his stay in the hospital, and having had much more nourishing food than he was able to provide for himself, he had gained rather than lost strength since his accident. He felt in no hurry to reach the miserable street in which he lived, though he anticipated with pleasure the welcome he would receive from the old sailor.

Had he known the hour of his dismissal, Mr. Corney might have come to the hospital to fetch Bert; but probably the old man would have found it impossible to leave his sister, whom he needed to watch constantly, if he would save her from the intemperance that threatened to prove fatal to her.

It was in the afternoon that Bert came out of St. George's Hospital, and the gay traffic which distinguishes Hyde Park Corner was at its greatest height. He stood for a while to watch the smart equipages that went by, half expecting to catch sight of Prin seated in one of them. Presently, he crossed the road and examined with interest the place where his accident had occurred.

"It was just here I caught sight of the Princess," he said to himself. "I could hardly believe my eyes, at first, and even now it seems to me like a dream. I wonder where she is. Is she still in London? Surely if she were, she would try to see me."

What if Prin had been to the street to seek him, while he was in the hospital, and, not finding him, had given up the search! "But surely I should have heard of it if she had been there," thought Bert. "Mr. Corney would have told me."

It seemed strange that Prin should be in London and make no effort to see her little brother. But the ways of the Princess had often appeared unaccountable to Bert.

Bert lingered no longer to recall the painful circumstances that had marked for him the Jubilee Day. He walked off briskly, but some impulse, not too evident, withheld him from taking the direct way home. He crossed the road and turned towards Park Lane. Presently he was passing along that aristocratic thoroughfare, finding much entertainment in observing the fine houses and the park, and the smart people who were moving about.

Suddenly his heart leaped within him, for there was Prin. A carriage was approaching him, and she was seated within it. He stood at the corner of one of the streets running out of the Lane, and the carriage dashed past him and stopped before a door about half-way down the street. Prin was very near him as the carriage went by, but she gave no sign of seeing him, and he had not dared to call out, as he had done before. But he noticed as she passed that her face was very red.

It took Bert a few moments to recover from the surprise, then he hastened after the carriage. He was in time to see its occupants alight. First there stepped down a lady wearing the wide cloak and flowing veil which mark the professional nurse. Then, with the help of the footman, she lifted down a girl apparently about Prin's age, with a face as white as a snowflake, who had to be supported on each side as she moved towards the open door. Prin followed, carrying a cushion and wrapper. She looked straight in front of her, or she must have seen her brother hurrying towards her. By the time he reached the house, the great door was shut, and the coachman was turning his horses round.

Bert watched the carriage drive away. Then he surveyed with a sinking heart the handsome oaken door. If only he had the courage to sound the knocker and demand to see his sister! But he dared not.

Yet he was resolved that he would not go away without seeing her. If he stayed there all night, he would wait till she came out. There was a lamppost close by. He threw his arms about it, and leaned against it till he was tired. Then he sat down on the edge of the pavement with his back against the lamppost.

Meanwhile a pair of eyes within the house were anxiously watching his movements. When it appeared that he was determined not to go away, a window above the door was raised a few inches and a voice, clear, though carefully subdued, called to him:

Bert looked up quickly. The voice was undoubtedly Prin's, but he could see nothing of the speaker.

"You must go. I tell you to go!" The voice had the old authoritative ring, and it betrayed anger too, but Bert was not now to be daunted by it.

"I'll go, p'raps, when I've seen you," he said, "not before. You're my sister, and I mean to see you."

This unexpected self-assertion on Bert's part evidently discomfited Prin. There was a pause of some moments, and when she spoke again it was to suggest a compromise.

"I can't see you now, but I'll try to see you presently, if you're a good boy and do as I tell you. Go into the Park and sit on the seat nearest the gate, and I'll come to you there as soon as ever I can."

"All right," said Bert, becoming again an obedient subject. He rose from the pavement, and taking one last look at the house, walked slowly away.

Almost at the end of the street there was an entrance into the Park, doubtless the gate Prin had referred to. He went inside and found a comfortable seat on a bench in the shade. But the time was long, and he grew very hungry ere Prin appeared.

At last he saw her hurrying towards him, with the pucker on her forehead which he knew of old as a sign that she was "put out."

"Oh, here you are, Bert," she said as she approached. "Now then, what do you want?"

"Why, I want you, of course," cried Bert, amazed at the coolness of the question; "what else should I want? Do you forget that you've been away for months? I want to know how it is you are in London, and what you are doing in that big house, and when you are coming home."

"Home!" she repeated, in a tone of disgust. "Do you mean to that hole in the area?"

"Why, no," said Bert, looking greatly disturbed; "that room ain't ours any longer. Mr. Corney lives there now, and I—I sleep in the corner under the stairs."

"So you want me to come home to a corner under the stairs!" cried Prin sharply. "Well, you are a nice brother!"

Bert was taken aback by her turning upon him in this fashion. Tears of disappointment sprang to his eyes.

"No, I didn't mean that exactly," he said; "but tell me about yourself, Prin. Why did you never write to me again? And how came you to leave that nice home in the country with the lady who kept cows, and where you used to ride about in a carriage every day?"

"A carriage!" exclaimed Prin, with a laugh. "Why, it was the milk-cart! I did not know the difference then, but I do now."

"Oh, I can't tell you everything," exclaimed Prin impatiently, "you'd never understand. Mrs. Hamblyn isn't a lady exactly. She has charge of one of Lord Ravenscourt's dairies, and lives in a pretty cottage close by. Mrs. Thornton, the lady who came to see me when I was ill, sent me to her, and she was very good to me; but after a while Lord Ravenscourt's family came to the Park, and I got to know the children, and I used to play with them in the hay, and they took a great fancy to me, especially the eldest, Lady Millicent, who is very ill. She would send for me when she was too ill to go out; she liked me to talk to her and amuse her, and when they were all coming to London to see the Jubilee, the children wanted me to come too, and Lady Ravenscourt said she would take me. Wasn't that a bit of luck for me?"

He had closely observed Prin while she talked. He noted that she had grown taller and prettier than ever. She was dressed very neatly, but in finer material than he had ever known her wear before. Her gown was daintily finished with frills at neck and wrists. To Bert's inexperienced eye the Princess appeared very like the real article.

"Not I," she cried, with a flash of scorn for his ignorance in her eyes. "I only wish I were! You've no idea what it is to be a lady. The lovely things that Lady Millicent has! Her father just dotes on her, and he is for ever giving her presents, though she is too ill to care about them. He has given her a little jewelled watch, and a diamond star, and a musical box, and she hardly cares to look at them. She'd give them to me if I asked her for them, I verily believe."

"Of course not, you stupid! I only said it to show how little she sets by them. I believe anybody might take them, and she not miss them."

Bert shook his head with an expressive grimace. He did not believe in any one holding jewels so lightly. But the thought was quickly effaced by more personal considerations. He looked wistfully at his sister, and said, with a tremor in his voice,—

"Don't you want to know nothing about me, Prin? Have you forgotten Jubilee Day?"

"Didn't you see me running after the carriage? Didn't you know I was knocked down?"

"Oh, was that you, and were you hurt?" asked Prin. "I saw there was a crowd, but I could not see much for the dust. Were you badly hurt?"

Bert began to talk of his experiences in the hospital. Prin listened with ill-concealed impatience. When he went on to tell the story of Mr. Corney and his sister, she quickly interrupted him.

"Oh, don't talk of that horrid Mrs. Kay! Of course she'll always drink. I guess her brother 'll wish he had never found her."

"Oh no," cried Bert, "he is very glad. He wants to save her. People can be saved from evil, Prin."

"Can they?" she said indifferently. "But now, Bert, I hope you've said all you want to say, for I must run back. They'll be wondering where I am, for I said I only wanted to post a letter."

"Now, don't be tiresome," said his sister. "How could I have a little scarecrow like you coming to the house? I'd be ashamed for the servants to know that you were my brother. And we shall soon be going back to the country. I'm to go to school again then, and afterwards I'm to learn the dressmaking, for Lady Millicent says I must be her lady's maid. But nurse says she'll not live to need a lady's maid."

"She looks ill enough," said Bert, remembering the white face he had seen. "Ah, Prin, I guess she'd gladly give up all her jewels to have your health."

"No doubt she would," said Prin; and for a moment a softer look came to her face, which, despite its youthful prettiness, had a hard, keen look. "Well, good-bye, Bert. I must not stay another minute."

Bert caught her by the arm. For a moment he could not speak, there was such a choking sensation in his throat.

"Good-bye, Prin," he said hoarsely at last. "Then you've done with me now? You'll never come back to me?"

"How can I?" she asked impatiently. "How could I live the old life? You'd better do as the lady said, get Dr. Barnardo to take you into his home."

He trudged along and never turned his head, a mean, shabby, little figure, looking strangely out of place amid the flowers and trees and gaily-dressed children. Prin felt a pang of self-reproach as she sped back to the house.

CHAPTER X

BERT had a warm welcome from Mr. Corney when he appeared at the top of the area steps. Cetywayo seemed to remember the boy who had been kind to him, and in a dignified and distant manner accepted Bert's caresses.

Mrs. Kay, too, greeted him kindly; but she looked ill and wretched. The sore struggle with her besetting sin was almost more than she could endure. It resulted in a depression which sometimes manifested itself as hopeless apathy, and sometimes as extreme irritability. She was a prey to the most terrible remorse, and, brooding over the past, could find no hope for the future. In vain her brother strove to cheer her, in vain he spoke of Him who is the sinner's Friend, and by whose grace he had himself been delivered from sin. His sister had no faith to lay hold of the Hand stretched out to her, and every now and again a relapse into intemperance shattered her confidence in herself and plunged her deeper in despair.

But Mr. Corney had not lost hope for her. His face had the strained look of one who bears a burden; but his smile was bright as he welcomed Bert, and proceeded to prepare a festive meal in honour of his return.

The boy was pleased and grateful; but the old man was quick to perceive that he too had a burden on his heart.

"No doubt he is sad at leaving the hospital, where the nurses were so kind to him," thought Mr. Corney, and he did his best to make the boy feel that he loved him.

Bert was cheered by the old man's kindness, but he kept silence concerning Prin. Not even to Mr. Corney could he tell how he had seen his sister, and she had cast him off.

By-and-by it appeared that there were to be fresh changes in Bert's life. Mr. Corney had resolved to leave the miserable street in which he lived, and seek a home for himself and his sister somewhere in the country.

"I'd like to go back to Scotland," he said, "if I could possibly get the money to carry us so far. My sister has the little bit of money her husband left her. It comes in quarterly, and she's been wont to drink it all as she had it. I've saved a trifle, and I'm a handy man at odd jobs, so I doubt not we shall be able to make a living.

"It's the only chance for her," he added sorrowfully, "to go where she's out of the way of the drink. Here it's always before her, as you may say. These streets reek of it. But in God's beautiful country, and the bonny air of Scotland, she may lose the craving; though it's God's grace only that can save her, I know."

"Oh, Mr. Corney! What shall I do if you go away?" cried Bert, in sudden fear. "There'll be no one left."

"I've thought of that," said Mr. Corney heartily, "and you must come with us, Bert—come with us—that's what you must do. We'll see if we can't make a man of you in Scotland."

Bert's eyes brightened at the words; but after a moment's reflection, he shook his head.

"I couldn't go," he said; "I couldn't go where Prin would not be able to find me if she wanted me. No, I must stay here."

And from this resolve, he was not to be moved. When Mr. Corney and his sister departed at the end of August, Bert remained behind in the stifling, ill-smelling street.

He knew that Prin had long ere this quitted London. He had paid another visit to the house near Park Lane, and had seen by its closed, deserted appearance that the family was away. Prin was not likely to return to London for many months to come, and still less likely was it that when she came, she would want him; yet Bert clung to the place where they had lived together during the few months that had elapsed after their father's death until the Princess fell ill. The unreasoning instinct of a faithful, loving heart held him there.

It was the close of a fervid day in September. In the country, the trees were beginning to glow with the brilliant hues which tell of the summer's decline; but in London only such tokens as the cry of "sweet lavender," or the display of mellow pears and early apples on the barrows of the costermongers, testified to the waning of the season. It was hotter than it had been in June. Though the sun had set, the baked pavements and walls still gave forth heat, and there was no perceptible cooling of the atmosphere.

The unlovely life of the street in which Bert lived was being carried on mainly out of doors. The noise of brawling and strife, the shrill voices of children mingling with the cries of street vendors, made a continual hubbub there. Bert, having just returned from selling papers, sat at the top of the area steps with his back to the street, gazing down sadly at the empty room which had been occupied by Mr. Corney and Cetywayo. It was growing dusk, but the noise in the street only increased as daylight faded.

Bert was paying no heed to what went on behind him. Drunken quarrels and fights had ceased to interest him, and no one as a rule noticed him. He started, therefore, and turned round in fear as he felt a hand upon his shoulder.

A girl stood behind him. She was tall, and, even in the uncertain light, it was evident that she was attired in a style very different from that which marked the girls belonging to the street. But Bert could not see her face clearly, and he waited in blank surprise till she said,—

It was the Princess! There was no mistaking her, though she spoke in a wonderfully subdued manner, and scarcely raised her voice above a whisper.

"Oh, Prin!" exclaimed Bert, his tone ringing with joy as he sprang up. "It's never you!"

"Hush!" she whispered imperiously. "Don't make such a noise! Let us get in quickly."

"Oh, Prin, what is the matter? What is frightening you?" he asked. "Where are you going? You forget that room does not belong to us now."

"Oh!" She shrank back with panting breath, and eyes big with consternation. "Where can we go, then? Think, Bert. Find some place for me."

Bert was appalled by the utter strangeness of the situation. That the Princess, who had always taken the lead and given him his orders, should now appeal to him in this helpless way, seemed past belief. Surely she must be ill, or something terrible had happened to her. But Bert rose to the occasion.

"The room is empty," he said. "I daresay Mrs. Brown would let us have it, if I asked her. I've saved pennies enough to pay for it for one week."

"Oh, I've money," said Prin quickly. "Here, take some, and pay for it in advance."

She gave him two shillings, and Bert hurried away. When she saw the money in his hand, Mrs. Brown readily agreed to let him have the room. She was much astonished to hear that his sister had come back, and she asked various questions, which Bert would not stay to answer, when once he had obtained possession of the key. He ran back to Prin, opened the door, and they entered the room.

The place smelt close and musty from having been shut up so long. Dust lay thickly everywhere. Bert felt that it was a poor place for Prin to stay in; but she uttered no complaint, only sank on to the nearest chair, heedless of the dust that covered it, and breathed a sigh of utter weariness.

"Ah, you're very tired, Prin, and it's a poor room for you after the lovely houses you've been in; but wait a moment, and I'll open the window and put the place to rights a bit."

Prin made no reply, and Bert hastened to do as he said. He opened the window, then ran off to beg a piece of candle from Mrs. Brown, for it was almost dark in the little room. When he had lighted the candle, he turned to look at Prin. She sat staring blankly before her with such a hopeless, miserable expression, that Bert felt a fresh pang of fear.

"Oh, Prin, do tell me what is the matter? What has brought you here like this? I can see that you are in great trouble."

"Now don't begin asking me questions," she cried, with a return to her usual manner; "can't you see that I am tired to death, and only want to be left alone? Make haste and put the room straight, so that I can go to bed."

Bert's glance lingered on her for a moment ere he obeyed her. He noted that Prin looked both ill and weary, and that her appearance was less clean and tidy by far than when he last saw her. Her nice frock was torn and stained with mud, and her boots were very dirty, though there was little dirt on the London roads in this hot weather.

Bert marvelled at what he saw, but he did not venture to ask another question just then. He hastened to dust the room, setting to work with a damp cloth, as he had seen the old sailor do. Working with all his heart in his desire to make the room fit for Prin, he soon succeeded in rendering it fairly habitable.

Prin said nothing as he performed his task. She hardly seemed aware of what he was doing. But when he moved towards the door, intending to run out and buy something nice for Prin's supper, she suddenly spoke,—

"Why, Prin," exclaimed Bert, in surprise, "I was only going out to get you some supper. You'd like something to eat, wouldn't you?"

"Oh yes, to be sure," she replied, with a sob in her voice, "I want food. I have not eaten anything to-day. But don't be long."

Promising to make great haste, Bert sped on his way. His heart was filled with distress and fear, yet mingling with these feelings was a certain sweet content. Whatever had happened, one thing was clear: the Princess wanted him now.

CHAPTER XI

BERT hurried back to the Princess with his hands full of small packages. He proceeded to set out the nicest supper his limited means had enabled him to provide. Prin began to eat eagerly, but ere she had swallowed many mouthfuls, her appetite suddenly failed. She pushed her plate aside, and said she could eat no more.

"Why, Prin, you must be ill," Bert said, unable to understand how one who had eaten nothing all day could be so easily satisfied.

"Won't you tell me first how it is you are in London?" Bert asked timidly. "Have you left Lady Millicent?"

"Yes," she said faintly, "I've left her. They were unkind to me, and I ran away."

The colour rose in Prin's face, and then died away as quickly. She answered, with considerable hesitation,—

"They said I was a thief—they said I had taken something of Lady Millicent's. They were coming to search my box, and I ran away."

"But why did you, Prin?" asked Bert, looking perplexed and troubled. "You should have stayed and let them search your box, then they would have known that you had not stolen it. But now they will most likely think that you've got whatever it was, and taken it away with you. It wasn't like you, Prin, to be so foolish."

"You didn't walk from Hampshire, surely?" he said, as his eyes fell on her boots.

"Most of the way," she said. "I didn't dare to take a train on their line, for fear they should telegraph and have me stopped at the station. I lay under a hedge last night, and as soon as it was light, I got up and walked on. Then a carrier's cart overtook me, and I got a lift. It was going to Weybridge, and there I took the train for London."

"You must be dreadfully tired," said Bert, looking compassionately at her; "you'd better get to bed at once."

"Oh," she cried, with a sudden wail of distress, "I wish I had not done it!" Then looking round her fearfully, she added, "You don't think they'll find me here, do you, Bert? Perhaps we had better go somewhere else."

"Why should you be afraid of their finding you, if you haven't got it?" asked Bert. "Of course you wouldn't be likely to steal. 'We're poor, but we're honest!' as father used to say. What was it they thought you had taken?"

"Oh, do be quiet! You'll drive me mad with your questions!" cried Prin angrily. "I am not going to say another word, so there."

She began to undress. When she took off her stockings, it appeared that her feet were sore and blistered, and Bert fetched some water and bathed them for her. Then she lay down, and almost immediately fell into an uneasy sleep. Bert sat and watched her, his mind full of perplexity and trouble. Presently Prin began to move from side to side in her sleep, and to talk rapidly.

"They're coming! They're coming!" she would cry. "Don't let them find me, Bert! Can't you hide me somewhere? Tell them I haven't got it. Oh, how it sparkles! Can they see it in the dark? It's Lady Millicent's; but if she's going to die, she won't want it; she doesn't care for it, anyhow. Oh, Bert, Bert, help me—don't leave me! I'm so frightened."

His high, clear tones seemed to reach her troubled brain even in her sleep, with power to calm. She grew quieter. Bert meant to watch beside her all night, but weariness overpowered him. He stretched himself at the foot of the bed, intending to rest but a few minutes, and fell into the sound slumber of a boy accustomed to sleep under the most unfavourable circumstances.

When he woke it was daylight, and the area-room, gloomy at the best of times, was as bright as it ever could be. Prin was awake, but complained of feeling very ill. She had terrible pain in her head and limbs. Bert ran out and bought some tea—a luxury he rarely indulged in himself—and made her a cup. She drank it eagerly, but it did not prove the panacea he had hoped. He would fain have brought Mrs. Brown to see her, but Prin passionately bid him bar the door against every one. She would soon be all right, if only she were left alone, she said. But though Bert let her lie all day undisturbed, only giving her something to drink when she asked him, she did not get better. At night she was in a high fever, and by the next morning she was delirious.

Then Bert had to seek the help of Mrs. Brown. She came and looked at Prin from the doorway, but would not venture nearer, being convinced that her malady must be something "catching."

She sent for the parish doctor, but he did not come till the afternoon, and meanwhile Bert suffered an agony of suspense. Again the terrible question, "What if Prin should die?" pierced his heart.

"What, is it you?" said Mr. Hurst, as he recognised the boy. "And is the Princess ill again? Why, I thought she had gone away?"

"Oh no; it wasn't that," said Bert; "she ran away because they were unkind to her."

"Yes; they said she had stolen something. Prin could not stand that. She always was a spirit. So she ran away."

Then he gave his attention to his patient. He went thoroughly into her case, and seemed anxious to do his best for her. There was no infection, he said. It was a fever produced by exposure, over-fatigue, and distress of mind. Perhaps influenza had something to do with it; but, whatever it was, she could not be moved now, but must be nursed where she lay.

"Who will nurse her?" asked the doctor. "Where's that old woman who used to take care of you?"

"You!" Mr. Hurst shrugged his shoulders expressively. "It's a poor look-out, if she has only you to nurse her. I'll see if I can get the district nurse to come; but her hands are pretty full just now. Why didn't she stay where she was well off?"

"Bert, Bert," she cried; "don't let them have it! It's mine, I tell you. See how it sparkles! They're diamonds, real diamonds, worth ever so much money. I only wish—"

"So," said the doctor, "her mind runs upon diamonds! Curious what a fascination they have for her sex! Many a woman is ready to sell her soul for them; but I should have thought this child was too young to have felt the temptation. But who knows! Perhaps the devil has thus baited his trap for her too."

He was speaking to himself rather than to Bert, who looked at him in wonder and made no reply, though the words inspired him with a vague uneasiness.

Mr. Hurst then gave Bert various plain and simple directions as to what he should do for his sister.

"Now mind what I have told you," he said as he departed. "I'll send the medicine directly, and you must give it to her at once."

"All right," said Bert. But, left alone with his unconscious sister in that dismal room, he felt as if nothing were right.

Bert proved a better nurse than the doctor could have believed. Love helped him to find out the best way of waiting on the patient, and inducing her to swallow the milk which the doctor had ordered her to have from time to time. The thin, worn mattress had slipped out of place under Prin's restless movements. Bert was exerting all his strength to drag it back into its right position, when suddenly a strange light flashed from beneath the corner he had raised. What could it be that gleamed so in that dark room? Bert turned up the mattress, and beheld, pinned to its inner side, a brilliant sparkling thing, which on examination proved to be a tiny brooch in the shape of a star. With trembling fingers Bert unfastened it and laid it on his palm, where, as the light fell on it, the costly ornament emitted flashes of dazzling, rainbow-hued brilliance.

Bert knew instinctively that the radiant gems which composed the brooch were diamonds of the utmost value. The sight inspired him with terror. His face grew white to the very lips as he looked at it, and the hand which held the diamond star trembled. For to him that beautiful object had the ugly face of a sin. He knew now what it was that Lady Millicent had missed, and he knew that Prin had stolen it; for assuredly no such radiant star had glittered on the dingy mattress when he made the bed for his sister on the night of her return. The discovery fell like a cruel blow on the loving heart in which the Princess was enthroned.

CHAPTER XII

THE diamond brooch seemed to burn Bert's fingers as he held it, and he was glad to thrust it out of sight again beneath the mattress. It was plain now why Prin in her mental wanderings continually spoke of diamonds and glittering things. Poor Prin! Her mind had been sorely troubled in consequence of what she had done. Sin had brought its penalty. Bert's first feeling of shame and indignation changed to pity as he watched her. She was very ill. Even Bert, in his inexperience, could perceive that her sickness was "nigh unto death."

The district nurse came in and looked after the patient, giving to her all the time she could spare from her other cases, which unfortunately were very numerous; for there was much sickness at this time in the close, stifling streets of this poor neighbourhood. The doctor watched the case carefully, but would answer no questions. Bert wondered sadly what the end would be. He could not bear to think of Prin lying cold and still, as he had seen his father lie.

Yet if she lived, would not the police be sure to find her and the stolen brooch, and take her off to prison? Bert had great faith in the omnipotence of the police. The thought of the Princess in prison was terrible. Yet scarcely less grievous was the thought of her guilt. God knew what she had done. God's eye could see the glittering thing hidden beneath the mattress. And God would punish sin. Was it too late to pray, "Deliver her from evil"?

The third day of Prin's illness was drawing to its close. Bert had drawn down the blind and lighted the solitary candle which illumined the room. The Princess had been very ill all day. The nurse had seen her in the morning, and had promised, if possible, to come in later; but she had not come. Bert was feeling intensely anxious about his sister, who had ceased to talk, and now lay in a heavy slumber.

In vain he had tried to induce her to swallow the milk and brandy which the nurse had told him to give her every hour. He had found it impossible to administer it, and he longed for the nurse to come to his help. The outside world was noisy as usual. Never had there been a greater turmoil in the street; but Prin was unconscious of it all. It seemed as if nothing would rouse her. As he sat beside her, Bert himself grew drowsy from protracted watching. His head began to nod as he sat there. How long he thus lost himself he could not have told, when suddenly he sprang up, roused to quick consciousness by Prin's voice. To his surprise, he saw her sitting up in bed and looking about her with a bewildered air.

"Bert," she said, "are you there? Where am I? Have I been ill? What place is this?"

"Why, it's our little room, Prin, where we used to live, don't you know? And you have been ill, very ill; but I'm so glad you're better."

"But she was here," persisted Prin, "you must have been asleep. She came and stood beside me, and put her soft little hand on my forehead, and said how sorry she was. She said she forgave me, but she was so sorry; because she was going to heaven, and she wanted me to go there too, but I couldn't if I did such things. Oh, Bert, where is she now?"

"It can't be a dream," persisted Prin, "I saw her as plain as possible, and I can feel her touch on my forehead now. Is it—is it all a dream that I took the brooch?"

Prin uttered a wail of distress and sank back on the pillow. All strength seemed to go from her.

"Oh," she murmured, "I can't think what made me do it. And she loved me so. You must take it back to her, Bert; you must tell her how sorry I am. Oh, I feel so ill. Am I going to die?"

"Oh no, not now, Prin," cried Bert; "you are better, I am sure. And the doctor will be here directly. He said he would look in again to-night."

"If he does not come soon, I shall die," she said faintly. "Oh, Bert, I don't want to die—I am so afraid!"

She would have said more, but utterance failed her. Her voice died away. She drew one deep breath, and then there was a stillness which appalled Bert. He bent over her in terror. He tried to force milk down her throat, but it ran out of her mouth as fast as he put it in. He laid his hand on her forehead, and it felt cold and clammy. He called to her loudly, but her ears were deaf to his cry.

Then his heart sank very low, and hope died within him. He caught up the candle, and held it so that its light fell full on Prin's face. The features were set, the eyes half-closed, the mouth a little open, and the countenance was ghastly in its pallor. Just so had he seen his father look when he was dead. So, it was all over. Prin too was dead! With a cry of despair, Bert cast himself face downwards on the bed.

He was roused by a resounding knock on the door. He started up in a dazed condition and went to open it. Two men stood at the foot of the steps. They were not attired as police officers, yet instinctively Bert divined their errand.

The look of the boy's pale, woe-begone face touched the man's heart, and he said kindly, "I am afraid we've come to bring you trouble, my little man. We have to arrest your sister on the charge of stealing a diamond brooch from the house of Lord Ravenscourt, near Petersfield."

"It's true, she took it," said Bert sadly. "I have it here, and I'll give it to you. But you can't take Prin, for she's gone."

"Gone!" repeated the foremost man sharply. "Where? When?" And he pushed forward into the room.

"Dead!" the two men exclaimed together, in startled tones. They were dismayed and awed. They stood by the door and looked uneasily towards the bed on which the still form lay.

Then the other man walked to the bed and looked closely at Prin, and laid his hand on her forehead.

Bert burst out sobbing; but, struggling with his sobs, he searched beneath the mattress and brought out the diamond star, which he gave to the officers.

"That's it," he said, "and please, when you give it to Lady Millicent, will you say that Prin was very sorry at the last?"

"All right, I'll see about it," said the man, conscious of a queer lump in his throat as he spoke. "And now, what are you going to do? You must get some woman to come and help you."

"Oh, then, they'll see about things," said the man, relieved. He was oppressed by the atmosphere of that gloomy room and the awful presence of death, and was anxious to get away, though it seemed hard to leave the boy alone with his dead.

So they went out. At the head of the area steps, they encountered the doctor, and paused to have a few words with him. But they did not descend again to the room. Even a police officer may have a heart too soft for his profession, and familiarity with painful scenes may fail to render it callous.

CHAPTER XIII

BERT was crouching on the bed close to his sister when the doctor came into the room. Dead or alive, Prin was Prin, and Bert felt no awe of her. He was bending over her, and his tears were dropping on her forehead. The doctor took hold of him forcibly and lifted him from the bed.

"Come, this won't do," he said. "You must not give way. Just let me have a look at her. It's all over, they tell me."

Bert made no reply, having no voice at his command. Dr. Hurst touched Prin's still form, straightened it, and laid his hand on her heart. Then he uttered a startled cry.

"She lives yet! I can feel her heart beat. Quick, boy, give me the brandy, quick!"

There was but a small quantity at hand. The doctor succeeded in pouring it all down his patient's throat; then he called to Bert for water. The boy flew to fetch it, and to his joy met the nurse at the door. She had come in time, not to lay out the dead, but to help to revive the living.

Doctor and nurse worked together in breathless excitement for some minutes. Their efforts were rewarded. Hope grew as they worked, till, after about a quarter of an hour, the girl drew a deep, natural breath, and opened her eyes.

"She will live," whispered the doctor; and Bert caught the words, and ran out of the room, that he might sob freely.

The nurse sat up with the patient that night, for her weakness was extreme, and she might yet slip away if she were not assiduously cared for. But the hours of the night brought no relapse, and the morning found Prin better.

"She'll do now," said Dr. Hurst, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. "It's the narrowest escape I ever saw. If I had come in a minute later, it might have been too late.

"Don't you be in such a hurry to jump to conclusions another time, young man," he added, as he turned to Bert; "but there! We'll hope there'll be no more times such as this."

Bert devoutly hoped so too. Yet thankful as he was that Prin was restored to life, there was a burden on the boy's mind as he thought of the future.

"Ah, the police!" said Dr. Hurst, looking grave. "That is a bad business. So, she was only a sham princess after all!"

"Ah! But she might have been!" said the doctor. "'Tis only noble to be good. Every good, true woman is of royal lineage, no matter who her parents were."

"And Prin was not good and true," said Bert sadly; "I will never call her Princess again."

"Don't say that," said Dr. Hurst; "she may be worthy of the title yet. She has life before her, and may live to be thankful for the fall which taught her the misery of wrong-doing. Do you know, lad, there is a ladder by which men and women may climb upwards, and the rungs of that ladder are formed of the mistakes and sins of the past? It is painful climbing for most of us; but she is young, and it will be easier for her."

"Oh, I hope so," said Bert, only half-grasping the meaning of the doctor's words.

Just then there was a rap on the door. Bert ran to open it. A gentleman stood in the narrow space at the foot of the steps. His bearing was such that he looked strangely out of place in that dingy spot, and catching sight of him, the doctor hastened forward.

"Is there not a girl lying dead here whose name was Sinclair?" he asked, with some hesitation of manner.

"Indeed!" said the gentleman, in amazement. "A police officer called at my house last night and told me she was dead."

Then the doctor stepping out and closing the door behind him, lest their words should reach the ears of his patient, began to explain Bert's extraordinary statement.

The gentleman listened in astonishment. "I should have thought the policeman might have known," he said.

"So should I," said the doctor; "but—" He shrugged his shoulders expressively.

"Well, I am glad the poor girl still lives," said the gentleman. "Can I see her?"

"No doubt you are right," said the gentleman. "I must wait till another time. I am Lord Ravenscourt. The policeman brought me last night the diamond brooch found here, which the girl stole from my daughter."

"Oh, sir!" broke in Bert, who stood between them, his tones quivering with emotion. "Please don't send Prin to prison! She's so sorry now that she took the brooch. She told me last night, before she died, as I thought, how sorry she was, and begged me to take the brooch back to Lady Millicent and ask her to forgive her. Oh, sir, will you ask Lady Millicent to forgive Prin? And if some one must go to prison, please let it be me!"

For a moment Lord Ravenscourt did not reply. Tears seemed to be glistening in his eyes when he said very gently,—

"Do not be afraid, my boy. Neither you nor your sister shall go to prison. But it is not in my power to give your message to Lady Millicent. She is in heaven. She passed away last evening."

"Last evening! And it was at that time that Prin had believed that she had a visit from Lady Millicent!" Bert marvelled; but he could not speak of that which was in his mind.

There was a silence which appeared long to all three, though it lasted only a few moments. Then Lord Ravenscourt said, speaking with an effort: "You may assure your sister of Lady Millicent's forgiveness. She loved her to the last, although she made such a base return for her love. It was the discovery of that which hastened my daughter's end. But we will not speak of it. Lady Millicent asked me to tell your sister that she forgave her and hoped to meet her in heaven. A week ago my daughter made her little will. She wanted to leave your sister the diamond brooch, because she knew how much she admired it; but I persuaded her that it would not be a suitable bequest, and a sum of money was substituted, to be spent on the girl's education."

Lord Ravenscourt paused abruptly. He became aware that he was speaking to a larger audience than he had imagined. Children were swarming on the pavement and hanging over the railings of the area. Women stood in the doorway above his head; others leaned out of the windows of the house. From every possible point of view, persons of more or less doubtful respectability were watching the strange gentleman, and straining their ears to hear what he was saying.

"I must go," said Lord Ravenscourt to the doctor. "You will let me know as soon as it is safe to move your patient. We must take her down to the country again. And the boy too. We must see what we can do for him."

Then he hurried up the steps, the crowd scattering to right and left at his approach, sprang into his hansom, and drove away.

"You may consider your fortune made, young man," said the doctor gleefully, as he and Bert went back into the room. Lord Ravenscourt's coming was to prove a good thing for him also, but that he could not foresee.

His foresight concerning the children proved true. Lord Ravenscourt was a good friend to them for his daughter's sake. Bert never knew again what it was to be lonely and ragged and hungry.

Prin's repentance was genuine. As she regained health and strength, her life was lived on a higher level. Her feet were on the ladder the top of which reaches to heaven, and she was seeking to follow in the steps of Lady Millicent, who had followed Christ.

Bert from time to time had good news of his old friend, Mr. Corney, or, as he now signed his letters, "Cornelius Theophilus Grant." His hopes for his sister were fulfilled, and she too was climbing the ladder and trampling under foot the sins of the past, strengthened by the Mighty Friend, whose hand she grasped as she toiled upward.

Bert could never forget the experiences of his childhood, nor lose his vivid consciousness of the evil that ruins human lives. His strongest desire as he grew up was to fight that evil—the evil within as well as that without—trusting for the victory to Him, whose is the "kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever."

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of A sham princess

A SHAM PRINCESS

CHAPTER I