"NO, I won't put up with it; there are plenty of places for a girl now-a-days, and I don't see why I should be expected to bear with people's tempers and never speak up for myself."

"Now, Lizzie, be reasonable. Perhaps there are more places to be had, but a girl never does any good for herself who is always changing." And as she spoke, Mrs. Betts took another hot iron down from the fire, and recommenced smoothing out the shirt that was spread on the board before her.

"But, Mother, why should I have to put up with people's crossness?" demanded the girl in an imperative tone.

"We all have something to put up with, Lizzie. Do you think it's pleasant for me to have to take in washing, just to make ends meet, because your father's work is so bad just now?"

The girl cast her eyes carelessly upon the fine white shirt her mother was ironing.

"I shouldn't mind doing that," she said; then all in a minute she started up alert and eager. "Oh! Mother, that's just the very thing; why shouldn't I come home and help you with the washing and ironing?" she exclaimed.

"Because I couldn't afford it, my girl," said her mother quietly.

"But you could get a bit more work—another family's washing, and then you could manage, Mother," said Lizzie in the same eager tone. She wondered she had not thought of it before; but now this way of escape from the necessity of going to service had occurred to her, she was not going to let it slip. "We could manage beautifully; I'm sure we could, Mother," she said earnestly. "I've learned some things since I've been in service, and you'd find I could help you a good deal more than you expect."

"You ought to be more handy. You have been out nearly a year now, and if you had kept all the time in your first place you would have been worth something by this time; for Mrs. Roberts prides herself on turning out good servants."

"Oh! Yes, I daresay; but what girl would put up with her fidgety ways?" said Lizzie.

"Many girls are glad to get the chance. Look at Mary Russell, she has been there ever since you left, and her mother tells me she is learning to cook and make pastry quite nicely."

"Oh! Well, let her. It's no good crying over spilt milk. Mrs. Roberts never taught me cooking, and I don't suppose she ever would if I'd stopped with her fifty years. Now, Mother, say I may give warning as soon as I go back, and let me come and help you instead of looking for another place."

But Mrs. Betts shook her head. "No, no, Lizzie," she said; "your father wouldn't like it. You must try to put up with Mrs. Spencer's temper; and be careful how you do your work, and then she will not be cross with you."

"You don't know her," snapped Lizzie; "nobody ever can please her. The girl next door told me as good as that the first day I went."

"Very well; if you knew your mistress was hard to please you should have been more careful not to offend her. Just think of it—you have had three places in less than twelve months! The first was dull, and your mistress too particular. You would go where there was children: before you had been a month in the nursery you could not bear the fretful baby—"

"Well, it was a cross little thing; you know that yourself, Mother," interrupted the girl.

"Well, perhaps it was cross; but then your mistress was very kind and considerate, and you might have put up with the baby's fretfulness for a little while longer. I tell you, Lizzie, that go wherever you may, there will be something to put up with. The world isn't a bed of roses for anybody, I can tell you; and if you don't have one thing to try you, it will be another."

"Yes, I daresay it will," said Lizzie, folding over the corner of the ironing-cloth; "but still I don't see why I should have to put up with strange people's tempers when I can help you at home."

"But I don't want you at home," remonstrated her mother. "The little bit of washing I have got I can manage by myself, and I cannot afford to keep a great girl like you."

"But you could get some more, I daresay," persisted Lizzie; "and then—"

But here the talk was interrupted by the entrance of her father, and she thought it would be best not to say any more about it at present.

"Where's Jack?" she asked, looking round for her brother, as her father set down his basket of tools which her brother usually carried.

Mrs. Betts looked up from her ironing, too, in a questioning manner. "There's nothing wrong, is there?" she said a little anxiously.

"No, no, Mother, there's nothing wrong but this: that we've only made about a couple of hours to-day between us, and Jack heard of a place that was vacant at the foundry, and so he's gone to see about it."

"But you couldn't do without Jack, Father, could you?" said Lizzie. "I thought you always wanted a boy for a soldering job, and you said the other day he was getting so handy you wouldn't know what to do without him."

"But I shall have to do without him if there's no work to be got," said her father with something like a growl, as he seated himself by the fire.

Mrs. Betts sighed and turned to her ironing again. "Don't you be late, Lizzie," she said; "and try all you can to please your mistress."

"Ah! Don't you be giving up this place just as things are at their worst at home," said her father by way of emphasis to his wife's remark.

Lizzie nodded her head but made no reply. She had begun to make a plan for her future, which her father's words did not in the least alter. She did not like service, she had made up her mind about that now, and she intended to get out of it as soon as she could, and do something that would afford her more liberty than she could have while out in a situation. She had not thought about living at home again until her mother mentioned the washing, but she caught at this as affording a chance for her return.

She bade her mother and father good-night, and went out, but she was in no hurry to go back to her mistress; and so, when she saw a friend at the corner of the street, she was quite eager to enter into conversation, and even to turn back and go with her on her errand.

"Why didn't you meet me on Sunday, as you promised, Emma?" she said in a reproachful tone.

"I couldn't get out. Three of the children were so poorly, and now the baby is quite ill," said the girl.

"And you stayed in for that?"

"Of course I did. How could I leave them?"

"Hadn't they got a mother?" demanded Lizzie.

"What makes you ask such a question as that? You know they have; and she's a kind considerate mistress, too," said Emma.

"Oh yes, very kind," said Lizzie with something like a sneer; "very kind she must be, to keep a poor girl in all day on Sunday—the only day she has a chance of getting out to see her friends."

"But she didn't keep me in," retorted Emma warmly. "She said I could go out as usual; but poor little Ethel cried so when she saw me with my bonnet on, that I said I would stay in. And I know mistress was glad enough about it; for she was able to go and lie down and get an hour's rest, while I kept the children quiet in the nursery."

"Well, Emma Russell, you are a muff! Anybody may know it's your first place!" exclaimed Lizzie scornfully. "To think of taking your things off after you had got ready to go out, and sitting down to mind a pack of cross children. Well, it's what I wouldn't do."

"Well, I would; and I'll do it again next Sunday if they don't get better."

"Oh! I daresay you'll do it every Sunday in future," said Lizzie with a short mocking laugh, "your mistress will take care of that, never fear. If you stop at home one Sunday, she'll think you can stay every Sunday."

"No, she won't," replied Emma. "And if she did, I'd rather put up with it than have the poor children crying for me as soon as my back was turned."

"Pack of rubbish! Let them cry, and let their mother quiet them," said Lizzie. "I tell you what it is, Emma,—it is girls like you who spoil places, and make mistresses expect so much of girls. I know—I've seen it."

Her companion laughed. "One would think you had been out at service ten years instead of ten months," she said.

"I've seen enough in ten months, though, to sicken me of service; and I don't mean to put up with it much longer."

"What are you going to do then, Lizzie?" asked her companion in some curiosity.

"Oh! I don't know yet; but I shan't stay in service much longer. Are you going back to your place now? Because we may as well walk together if you are, and I can tell you what I've been thinking of."

"Wait a minute until I go in and ask Mother if she's made my new aprons; for I want them to wear, and mistress said I might come and ask about them."

"You've never been buying more new aprons, Emma?" exclaimed her friend. "I'm sure you wanted a new hat more than aprons."

"I'm sure I didn't," contradicted Emma. "A new hat! And I only had that the beginning of the summer, and have just worn it on Sunday afternoons. I mean to make that last all the winter with a bit of new dark ribbon."

"Well I wouldn't spend the money in buying coarse aprons," retorted Lizzie. "Now make haste, and I'll wait for you," she said as they reached the door of Emma's house.

She would not go inside, for she did not like Mrs. Russell (she thought she was too strict with Emma); and so she paced up and down the street for the ten minutes Emma was chatting. She ought to have been back at her home—her mistress would be sure to scold her, for she was told that she could go out for an hour to see her mother, but not to stay longer, as she would be wanted. She remembered something of this just as Emma joined her, and she said:

"Come, make haste, I ought to be home by this time."

But she forgot her hurry when the broad lighted street was reached, where tempting displays of ribbon and lace were spread out in the shop windows.

"Do stop a minute and look at this hat, I'm going to ask Mother to make me one like it," said Lizzie catching her companion by the arm, and drawing her towards the brilliantly-lighted shop.

Emma paused a minute to look at the hat Lizzie was so anxious she should see, but she did not stay to admire it. "I want to get back," she said; "I am afraid the children will wake up while I am out."

"Oh! Bother the children; surely you can stay a minute. Just look at that lace, isn't it cheap? I mean to buy some out of my next money."

Emma paused again to look for a minute where she was directed. "I can't see the fun of looking at things we are never likely to want, and never shall be able to buy," she said.

"But I mean to buy them some day," said Lizzie. "I don't believe in dressing a dowdy fright, and spending all my money in coarse aprons."

"But you can't do without tidy holland aprons, and you can do without lace," laughed Emma.

"But I can't, and I won't; and that's another reason why I hate service. A servant mustn't dress nice, or wear anything like her mistress; and she must wear caps and white aprons that cost no end of money, just to please other people, and I won't do it."

"But what will you do?" asked Emma. "Girls don't go to service for the fun of the thing, of course. If Mother could keep me at home, she would be very glad to have me help her with the children; but she can't afford it, now there are so many of us."

"Well, my mother will have to afford it. There are only two of us besides Mother and Father; and now Mother's began to take in a bit of washing, I know she wants me at home to help her."

"Well, if she wants you at home, of course you ought to go," said Emma. And then she suddenly added, "I say, Lizzie, do you think she would take a bit more washing?"

"I'm sure she would if she could get it. That's just what we want. Why did you ask?"

"Because my mistress wants to find somebody that will do ours without tearing the clothes so much. Last week one of my collars and two of baby's pinafores were torn all to pieces."

"Oh! Do speak for Mother to have it, Emma," said her friend eagerly. "I know she would be very particular, and she can iron shirts beautifully."

"If she can iron shirts nicely, and don't tear the clothes, she will be sure to do very well for us," said Emma; "and I'll speak to mistress about it to-morrow."

"Oh! You are a dear. If you will do that, I shall be so glad," said Lizzie.

Emma was surprised to find her friend so eager about this.

They had paused at the top of the street where Lizzie lived to have the last bit of talk about the washing, and Emma turned away after saying "good-night," but the next instant Lizzie was beside her again.

"I shall come a little way down this road with you," she said.

"Won't you be late? I thought you wanted to get back," said her companion, walking sharper now to make up for the time she had wasted looking in at the shops.

"Oh! It don't matter," answered Lizzie lightly. "When do you think you will know about the washing?" she asked.

"Well, I'll speak about it to-morrow morning if I can, and tell you when I get out on Sunday what she says about it."

"Mind you do get out next Sunday. I walked up and down this road for an hour last Sunday afternoon waiting for you."

"Oh! I shall be able to come next Sunday I should think. For the children will be better I hope, and there will be nothing to hinder me," said Emma; and then she once more bade her friend "good-night," and turned homeward without any further delay.

Lizzie had been out nearly two hours instead of one, and her mistress had been put to some inconvenience, and was very cross when she got back.

"I told you I could only spare you for an hour, Elizabeth," she said as she opened the door to her young maid of all work. "You have been out nearly two hours. Where have you been all this time?"

"Home," answered Lizzie with a toss of her head.

"But surely your mother would not keep you so long? Did you tell her I could only spare you for an hour to-night?"

"No; I didn't think it mattered."

"Now, Elizabeth, if you stay here you must obey me," said the lady sharply; for her manner was so provoking she felt strongly inclined to give her notice to leave there and then.

It was just what Lizzie was wishing she would do; but Mrs. Spencer, out of compassion for her mother, resolved to try and bear with her a little longer, hoping the girl's own good sense would be sufficient to convince her of the folly of what she was doing.

"You ought to try and do as you are told, for your mother's sake if not for your own," went on the lady in a reasoning tone, while Lizzie stood stretching the elastic of her hat, looking as indifferent and defiant as she well could.

"There! You had better go to the kitchen and set the supper tray," she said at last, finding she could make no impression upon her; and Lizzie walked along the passage, swinging her hat as she went in a manner totally indifferent.

In reality, she was disappointed. She had made up her mind that her mistress would be so vexed because she was late that she would give her warning to leave as soon as she went home, and that this had not happened provoked her considerably. She threw her hat down in the corner of the kitchen, dashed the knives out of the tray on to the table with as much clatter as she could, snatched the plates from the rack and set them on the tray without wiping them, and smashed a tumbler lifting it from the shelf.

The breaking of the glass seemed to have a calming effect upon her temper, and she was moving about more quietly when her mistress came in to see what was broken.

"Another tumbler, Elizabeth?" she said, taking up one of the broken pieces.

"Another! I haven't broke one before," said the girl gruffly.

"Didn't you break one last week?" queried Mrs. Spencer. "And didn't I tell you then that you would have to pay for the next out of your own money?"

"But I didn't say I'd do it," answered Lizzie pertly.

"No! But I shall expect it done; and therefore I shall stop sixpence—the value of it—out of your next month's money."

"Then I won't stop here," said Lizzie, throwing down the salt spoon she had in her hand. "I'm not going to work hard for my money, and then buy your glasses with it, and—"

But her mistress turned round and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Lizzie to rave at the walls if she pleased; for she closed the door as she went out, so that no one should hear what the foolish girl said.

CHAPTER II.

AT THE FAIR.

MRS. SPENCER did not speak to Lizzie again that night; she thought it would be best to wait until the girl was in a better frame of mind.

So the next morning, when breakfast was over, and a suitable opportunity offered, she said, "Elizabeth, are you sorry for what took place last night?"

Instead of answering Lizzie picked up the corner of her apron, and began twisting it round her fingers.

"We must come to some understanding with each other, you know," went on the lady; "because I cannot keep you if you are determined to go on as you have been doing this last month. The first month you were with me you did very well indeed, and beyond showing you how I liked things done, you gave me no trouble; but since then, scarcely a day has passed but I have had to find fault with you."

"If I don't suit, I'd better go," said Lizzie sullenly.

"But do you know what that will mean for you, my girl?" asked the lady. "You have made a bad beginning of life as it is, and if you leave me, it will make things worse. You have already had three situations within twelve months, and for a girl to be constantly changing her places like that, proves that there must be something amiss with her."

"No! It ain't me; it's the places," said Lizzie.

"Well now, tell me frankly why you left your first place," said Mrs. Spencer. "I don't like to see a girl act so foolishly as you are doing. It will end in trouble for you by and by, I feel sure."

"I must take my chance of that, I suppose," said the obstinate girl still twisting at her apron.

"But you have not answered my question, and I should like to know why you left your first place," reiterated the lady. "You left your last on account of the children, but I have heard that there were no children where you lived first."

"No; but the place was hard, and I thought I'd like to go where there were children. I want an easy place where—where—"

"Where the work is put out, I suppose," said the lady with a smile. "Well, I can assure you, there are no such places as that to be got, Elizabeth; and so you had better make up your mind to settle down here until you have earned a character, and are able to take a better situation."

"There's nothing amiss with my character," said Lizzie in an indignant tone.

"Cannot you see that you are making your character anything but what it should be by so frequently changing? People will say you are so discontented, it is useless to take you into their homes; and the better the place may be, the less likely they are to give you a trial. Now, make up your mind to turn over a new leaf, and stay where you are for a year. If you will promise to do this, I will look over the past, and give you another trial; for I am thinking of the sort of character I should have to give you, if you left me now."

"Oh! You needn't trouble about that," said the girl pertly, "I shan't want you to give me a character. I'm not going to service again."

"Not—going—to—service—again!" repeated Mrs. Spencer in great astonishment. "Why, your Sunday-school teacher told me that your mother was so thankful you were out, for your father's work had been so very slack lately."

Lizzie hung her head, and looked rather foolish.

"What do you think of doing, if you are not going to service again?" asked the lady.

The question had to be repeated more than once before Lizzie would answer, but at length she muttered, "I'm going home to help Mother with the washing—she takes in washing now."

The lady looked puzzled; but still this did not seem such an unreasonable thing, only she thought it was rather a short-sighted business to take the girl away and put her to the wash-tub when she could do so much better for herself in service.

This she thought was a question for her mother to consider, however; and so she said no more to Lizzie upon the subject, but resolved to call and see her mother about it.

So an hour or two afterwards, just as Mrs. Betts was busy ironing, she was surprised by a visit from Mrs. Spencer, and greatly astonished when she heard the errand upon which she had come.

"I told her distinctly last night that I could not have her at home, and her father said the same thing," said the poor woman looking greatly troubled over the account the lady gave of Lizzie's behaviour. "I'm very much obliged to you, ma'am, for the trouble you have taken with her; and if you could persuade her to stop with you I should feel very grateful. Tell her, ma'am, she can't come home—we can't afford to keep her; and as to taking in washing and having her home to do it, why, I might as well be without it."

"I think you are wise in trying to induce her to stay in service," said the lady; and she went back to see what she could do with the foolish girl, who seemed bent upon running into trouble, and causing distress and anxiety to her friends.

She did not know what to say when she heard that her mistress had been to see her mother.

"What did you want to go for?" she said sullenly. "I know Mother will want me at home, for she is going to have some more washing, and so I should like you to suit yourself by this day month," added Lizzie.

"No, Elizabeth; I shall not take your warning," said her mistress firmly. "You must try and do better in future, and for your mother's sake put up with what you do not like."

"I hate service, and I never shall like it," said Lizzie, now beginning to cry; but she did not say any more about leaving, and her mistress hoped things would smooth down, and she would grow reconciled when she found it was impossible for her to go home to live.

On Sunday, Mrs. Betts told her again she must not think of giving up her situation. She had heard from Emma Russell about the new washing, and had seen her mistress, and she had told her that Emma was so kind to the children, so considerate and obliging, that she intended to buy her a new dress as soon as the children get better.

"She came soon after your mistress was here; and I could not help comparing the two accounts I had heard, and wishing it was my girl that was being praised," added poor Mrs. Betts.

"I don't," said Lizzie doggedly. "I might be quite as good as Emma, but nobody would ever think any more of me for it; and so I mean to take things easy. It's Emma's luck to be thought so much of," she concluded.

"Luck has nothing to do with it," said Mrs. Betts. "She has earned a character for being good-natured and obliging, while you have got one for discontent. I tell you, though, that you must be contented where you are, for I cannot and will not have you at home, though this fresh washing has come in," concluded her mother.

So Lizzie went back feeling greatly disappointed and very unhappy; for she had made up her mind that when her mother got this washing, she would certainly be compelled to have her home in spite of what she had told her mistress. In fact, the foolish girl began to think it was entirely owing to her, that her own plans had failed. If she had not gone to her mother as she did, Lizzie felt sure that, having secured the washing for her, she could easily have persuaded her that it was best to give up her place and come home to help with it; but the premature disclosure of these plans had spoiled them altogether.

So it was in no pleasant mood that she went back on Sunday evening. And far from resolving to try and do better in future, she made up her mind to do all she could to vex and annoy her mistress. By this means, too, she might be able to compel her mother to let her go home, and once at home, she would turn over a new leaf, and be so steady and industrious, that her mother would not want to part with her again.

Just as she was about to turn into the street where she lived, her attention was attracted by half-a-dozen caravans that slowly rolled along the road, a group of men and women talking loudly in dispute beside them.

Lizzie paused a minute to look at the gaudily-painted picture on the outside of one, when an elderly red-faced woman stepped up to her.

"My dear, can you tell me the way to Snowfields?" she said.

Lizzie's head was full of the pictures painted on the caravan, and she wondered whether she could go and see the wax-work figures they represented.

"Are these shows going to Snowfields?" she said, after she had taken some pains to point out the way to the woman.

"Yes, my dear, we shall be there for a week; and if you like to come round some evening and ask for Mrs. Stanley, why, you shall see the wax-works, and maybe have your fortune told if you can bring a bit of silver with you, just to cross your hand with," said the woman.

Lizzie looked doubtful. "I haven't got much money," she said in a faltering tone.

"Oh! A little bit will do, my dear; or an old silver spoon that your mother has thrown away."

The silly girl felt flattered that the woman should think her mother was rich enough to throw away old silver spoons, and went on holding her head a trifle higher, while the woman hurried to overtake her friends, smiling as she thought how easy the girl could be taken in.

Lizzie reached home in a rather better mood than when she set out on her walk, and was altogether more pleasant and obliging during the next day; so that her mistress thought the advice she had doubtless received at home had made some impression upon her, and that she had resolved to do better in future.

So when on Wednesday morning she asked if she might go out for an hour in the evening, Mrs. Spencer thought it would encourage her to persevere if she let her have some relaxation, and so gave her permission, but told her not to stay out so late as she had done the previous week.

As soon as the tea-things were cleared away, Lizzie went upstairs to dress herself; for she had made up her mind to go as smart as she could to see Mrs. Stanley. She had trimmed the sleeves of her dress with white lace, and tacked a broad piece round the neck, and put on her best hat and gloves, thinking to impose still further on the woman's notion that she was a lady.

She was careful to button her black cloth jacket close when she went out, so that her mistress did not notice how smart she had made her frock look; but before she got to Snowfields, she took it off and carried it across her arm.

There was little fear that she would meet Emma Russell or any of her friends on the road to Snowfields; for this was a piece of waste ground lying at the back of the town, and altogether out of the way of the general traffic, although there seemed a good many people on their Way thither this evening.

Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, there was no one walking along the road who recognized Lizzie, and she reached the ground feeling quite elated over her success so far. She had brought sixpence—all the money she possessed, and she carefully pulled out her lace ruffles, drew up her gloves, and put on an air that she thought must convince everybody of her right to be considered a lady.

The business of the evening was just beginning when she reached the ground. There was a steam roundabout, a stall for shooting at a target, besides the wax-work show, in front of which a girl about her own age, dressed in red velveteen and spangles, walked up and down a narrow platform in front of the picture that had caught her attention on Sunday night, and expatiated on the wonders to be seen inside.

Lizzie stood still to have another look at the picture; for it was nearly dark on Sunday, and only a few of the most glaring points could be seen. And as she looked, she noticed that the name of "Stanley" appeared on the show, and over the roundabout—in fact, the whole fair seemed to belong to the Stanleys, so that Lizzie felt doubly glad she had put on her best frock to visit a lady of such wealth and importance.

After looking about her for some minutes, hoping to see Mrs. Stanley appear from behind some of the caravans, Lizzie stepped up to the edge of the platform, and tried to make the girl understand that she wanted to speak to her, but the din of the steam roundabout, the crack, crack, bang, bang, of the rifles, and the grinding of an Italian organ just inside the wax-work exhibition itself, made this perfectly impossible, and all the notice the girl vouchsafed to her, was to call in a louder tone:

"Walk up, ladies, walk up, the performance is just about to begin. Only one penny to see all the wonders of this marvellous exhibition." And as she repeated these words, the girl moved the gilded stick she carried in front of the gaudily-painted picture, and walked on in lofty disregard of Lizzie's beseeching looks.

At last, as there seemed no other way open to make her arrival known to the lady she was in search of, Lizzie went up the few steps, and presented herself to the man who was taking money in front of the curtain that hung over the entrance to the show.

"I want to see Mrs. Stanley, if you please," she said, putting on her most ladylike air.

The man looked at her with a puzzled expression, and just at that moment the curtain was pushed aside, and two or three boys and girls came out of the exhibition, looking very hot, and bringing an overpowering smell of sawdust and paraffin with them.

"You want to see Mrs. Stanley," said the man slowly, looking the girl all over, and noting every point about her dress and appearance. "And what may you want her for?" he said, resting his elbows on the little green baize-covered table the more easily to look at the girl more closely.

She drew herself up and looked indignant. "I have come to see her," she said; "she told me to come on Sunday evening."

"Oh! She did, did she? Well, then, it's all right, I s'pose. Only she ain't got time to see many visitors, I can tell you, young lady;" and then the man poked his head inside the curtain and called, "Tottie, Tottie, come here."

A pale cross-looking girl, dressed in bright pink tarlatan, came presently to the front.

"What do you want now?" she demanded.

"Open t'other door and call your mother; here's a lady come to see her," and Lizzie thought she saw the man wink as he spoke.

Certainly the girl stared at her before she dropped the curtain and went to open the door.

This show did not seem to be largely patronized, in spite of the pictures and the shrill invitations to "walk up, walk up" constantly uttered by the girl outside. People seemed to prefer riding on the wooden homes and swans of the roundabout or shooting for nuts.

In a few minutes the girl in pink came back, and said shortly, "She's to go round."

"Rosina, Rosina," called the man, still sitting with his elbows on the table.

But if Rosina heard, she did not choose to answer the call, until in her regular walk up the little platform she came near the entrance, and then putting her head round she said sharply, "What now?"

"Just show this lady the way round to the general's quarters," he said in a lofty tone, and he motioned Lizzie to go down the steps again.

And the girl with the wand in an equally dignified manner pointed to a little opening between the caravans, which gave access to the space at the back, where horses were tethered, ugly lurcher dogs sprawled about, and the kitchen arrangements for the whole fair seemed to be carried on. But a neatly painted caravan, with pretty lace curtains at the little windows, stood in the midst of the nondescript litter, and at the door stood the woman she had seen on Sunday night.

Lizzie gave another pull at her lace and gloves, and Mrs. Stanley, who noticed it, said in a less boisterous tone than she usually adopted, "So you've kept your promise, miss, and come to see the show people."

"Yes," said Lizzie, in the most languid tone she could assume. "I've come, but I shan't be able to stop long."

"Oh! That's a pity now; for I might ha' showed yer all the sights o' the fair, besides telling your fortune. You've brought the bit of silver I spoke about, ain't yer?"

"Yes, I've brought sixpence," said Lizzie.

"Well, come up here now, and we'll shut the door and have a quiet chat to ourselves," said the woman; and Lizzie, feeling very much gratified at this distinction, went up the little flight of steps.

She was amazed when she stepped inside to find herself in a cosy little room, with a bright carpet on the floor, a chintz-covered sofa at the opposite end, and chairs ranged along the sides, and a mahogany table in the centre.

"You see, I've got a tidy room to ask a lady into," said the woman, placing a chair for her guest and one for herself near the table.

"Ye-es, I did not think these places were so comfortable," said Lizzie, lost in amazement at her surroundings.

"Well, miss, I wouldn't tell everybody, but I must confess the show business isn't bad for making money. This is very well when we're on the road, but you should see our winter quarters. Oh! We're in clover in the wintertime. Like the bees, we make our honey or money in the summer, and spend it in the winter. And now for the bit of silver to cross the palm with. Take off your gloves, my dear, and hold your hand up to the light so that I can see the lines, and then we'll have a look at the cards and see what they say," and Mrs. Stanley produced a dirty pack of cards from her capacious pocket, and proceeded to shuffle them.

CHAPTER III.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

"WELL, to be sure!" And in well-feigned astonishment, Mrs. Stanley threw down the cards and looked at Lizzie, who sat close by, watching the performance with great interest.

"What is it—what is the matter?" she asked.

"What is the matter?" repeated the woman. "Why, you've got such a lucky hand, that I ought to have half-a-crown for telling it; and if you can't give it me now, you must remember me when you're a rich lady riding in your carriage in silks and satins."

"Oh! Yes, I will," said Lizzie with a smile of supreme satisfaction, taking up her gloves and preparing to put them on again.

"Wait a minute, my dear. I'll go through the cards once more, just to be certain there's no mistake about it, and maybe I shall be able to tell which way the riches are coming—whether from mother and father, uncle or aunt."

But Lizzie shook her head at this suggestion.

And the woman, watching her, presently said, "No, it ain't through either of these ways it'll come; and it won't be just yet either, for I can see you'll travel a bit and see the world—a good deal more of it than this little town can teach you."

While she was saying this the woman was moving the cards about, and pretending to read her predictions from those she turned up; but she kept her eyes on Lizzie, watching her face more than the cards. After this mummery had been gone through for several minutes, she suddenly threw down the cards with an angry expletive.

"If I wasn't afraid it 'ud turn out like that," she exclaimed, thumping the table with her clenched fist.

"Why, what is it?" said Lizzie with whitening lips, "Am I to be a servant after all?"

"Well, it won't last long. I see by the cards you are in service now, though nobody would think it to look at you. People say fortunetellers are deceivers, and they may be sometimes; but it's the stars are at fault. And I'll tell you how, my dear. A wise woman looks at a hand, and she sees fortune writ there plain as the nose on your face, then she turns up the cards and sees fortune there again, and of course she thinks it safe enough, and she tells the party, for it's taken her some time to find out this much, and she don't stop to look no further, 'cos there's no time to spare to learn any more, and so the thing that ought to be done ain't known nothing about—ain't made itself seen, 'cos it wants looking for, and so a fortune's lost. Ah! Many a fortune's lost that way, my dear."

"But have you found out all about it for me?" asked Lizzie quickly; for it was getting dark now, and she had a long way to go home.

"Yes, my dear. I've got to the bottom of the matter at last, though it seemed as though the stars didn't want to disclose all their secrets about you;" and she went on talking about the "stars" as though they were intimate friends of hers, who could not resist her blandishments when she was determined to wring their secrets from them.

"But you have not told me what I am to do," said Lizzie, rising from her seat at last, and drawing her gloves over her fortunate hands.

"No, my dear. Because it's rather a disappointing thing I've got to tell you; and I'm soft-hearted enough to feel sorry when I see a girl disappointed, and maybe lose the fortune that's waiting for her, because she can't make up her mind to stretch out her hand and lay hold of it."

"Oh! I'm not like that," said Lizzie. "I'd get it, I know, if I had the chance!"

"Well, my dear, you certainly have got the chance. The fortune's there sure enough, but I can see it'll never drop into your lap. It wants seeking. You must go and meet it, for it will never come to you in this miserable town, nor while you are in service; I can see that plain enough."

"But what am I to do?" said Lizzie in a tone of perplexity.

"Well, I ain't quite clear about that yet," said the woman. "I must study the cards and the stars a bit deeper; such things as that ain't found out in a hurry."

"Oh! But I can't stop any longer," said Lizzie in a tone of alarm; for as she spoke a church clock struck nine, and she ought to have been home by this time.

"No, no, you can't stay to-night, I know that, my dear; but still I should be sorry for you to lose this fortune when you are willing to get it."

While she was speaking the woman took down her bonnet and shawl from the peg and put them on. "I'll walk back with you," she said; "for it's hardly safe for a pretty girl like you to be so late. And as we go along, we'll think of a plan to meet again; for I take a great interest in young people, 'specially them as are the favourites of the stars, as you are."

"I expect I shall catch it when I get home," said Lizzie, looking round the lighted fair as they stepped out beside the wax-work show.

"Never mind, my dear, it won't be for long," said Mrs. Stanley; "the stars speak plain enough on that. You've but a short time to be in service, that's plainly writ—over six months I should say, but under a year."

"Then it won't be long," said Lizzie in a relieved tone; "for I've been out ten months."

"Ah! I thought it was about that time Jupiter indicated, and I should say it'll end in a few days now."

"The sooner the better," said the girl; "for I hate service."

"Of course you do, my dear; the fortune that hangs over you won't let you settle to it as other girls can. And now let us see about our meeting again. I suppose you won't be able to get out any more this week?"

"Not till Sunday," replied Lizzie with a sigh.

The woman reiterated it. "That's awkward," she said; "for I shall be miles away from here by that time."

"But—but you won't go away till you've told me what I've to do to get this fortune?' she said.

"Well, my dear, I'll help you to get it, if I can," said the woman in a tone of benevolent pity; "but, you see, I'm only the servant of the stars like the rest of mankind, and I must move on at their bidding, and I know I've got to go the last thing on Saturday night, or first thing on Sunday morning. I tell you what, though," she said, as though she had just thought of something, "I might come and see you one night about dusk. Is there a side gate at your house?"

"Yes," said Lizzie eagerly; "and my mistress will be out to-morrow night, and I shall be alone. So if you come about eight o'clock, you might tell me what I ought to do, and I'll pay you well for your trouble when I get my fortune."

"Of course you will, my dear. You'll be worth your weight in gold by and by, and able to help old Mother Stanley and a good many people besides."

And she talked of the splendid silk dresses she would wear, and the number of servants and carriages she would keep, and the grand things she would do for all her friends by and by, until the silly girl's head was completely turned; which was exactly what the artful woman designed, for this would enable her to carry out the plan she had formed when she first saw Lizzie, and the discontent on her face told her she was dissatisfied with her lot in life, and ready to incur any risks to change it.

Mrs. Stanley went to within a few yards of the house where Lizzie lived, carefully noted its appearance, and then turned back, laughing to herself over the girl's folly, and how easily she had been taken in.

She was careful to be near the house about eight o'clock the next night, and, as she expected, she soon saw Lizzie peeping out of the side gate looking for her. She held up her finger warningly as she drew near, and looked up and down the street to make sure no one was watching her, and that no policeman was in sight, and having satisfied herself that nobody was about, she darted inside the gate and carefully bolted it after her, and then followed Lizzie to the comfortable little kitchen at the side.

"Well, my dear, I've had a deal of trouble to find out all you wanted to know," she said, seating herself in the chair Lizzie had placed ready for her. "Are we all alone—is that woman who calls herself your mistress safe out of the way?"

"Yes, she's gone out to supper," said Lizzie, "and will not be home till ten o'clock, and master has gone with her."

"Master?" repeated the woman in a scornful tone. "Didn't I tell you, you'd soon be worth your weight in gold, and able to buy these half-and-half people up over and over again. Take that horrid cap off, my dear. I do hate to see a lady who is on the edge of coming into a fortune in a thing like that," and Mrs. Stanley loosened her own bonnet-strings and unpinned her shawl by way of making herself comfortable, while Lizzie took off the obnoxious cap and put it out of sight.

"My dear, you've got lovely hair. You'll set off the jewels and satins you'll wear by and by," said the woman, apparently lost in admiration of the girl as she seated herself at the other side of the table, and prepared to listen to the further unfoldment of her "fortune."

"Now you want to know what secrets the stars have disclosed since I saw you last," went on Mrs. Stanley. "Well, my dear, it's all summed up in one word—travel. You've got to travel—to go right away from this dull out of the way misfortuned place; for I can see plain enough that the malefic stars rule over this town, and the sooner you're out of it the better."

"But how am I to go?" asked Lizzie in some anxiety. "My mother and father and all my friends live here, and I don't know where else to go."

The woman crossed her arms and looked at Lizzie. "Ain't there nobody as knows you anywhere—not in London or some other big city?" she said.

The girl shook her head dolefully. "I haven't got a friend in the world outside of this town," she said.

"Well, now, that is unfortunate. And worth your weight in gold you'll be by and by," said her visitor, as if in great perplexity.

"Could—could you help me to get away, do you think?" asked the girl with some hesitation in her tone.

It was just what the woman had been waiting for, but she would not appear eager about it. "Well, suppose we talk it over a bit," she said in apparent reluctance. "Are you quite sure you ain't got no friends outside this town?"

"Yes, quite sure; and I haven't a penny in the world unless my mistress pays me my month's wages to-morrow," said Lizzie with tears in her eyes.

"Well, perhaps she'll pay you; and then you can go by yourself and seek your fortune," said Mrs. Stanley.

But the girl shook her head. "I shouldn't know where to look," she said. "I don't know anything about the stars; but if I could come with you, I should be sure not to miss it."

"That's true enough," said the woman meditatively; "but do you think your friends would agree to the plan?"

"I shouldn't ask them," said Lizzie, smiling at the absurdity of such a suggestion. "My mother thinks there is nothing better than service for a girl like me, and so I'm sure she wouldn't let me look for anything else, if she could help it. No! If I am to come with you, I should take care not to let anybody else know about it, or hear where I am until I get my fortune. Then, of course, I shall want to come back and help them all. I shall set my father up in a good business, and let my brother Jack learn to be an engineer."

"Of course you will help your friends, my dear, when you get your fortune; and it will be a pity to lose it for the want of going to seek it."

"I won't lose it," said Lizzie confidently, "if you will only let me come with you."

"Very well; as it seems the only way we can do it, perhaps you'd better. You know what sort of a place you'll have to travel in. But I shall have to coax my husband over to let you join us."

"Do you think he will object?" asked Lizzie anxiously.

"Well, if you get your wages to-morrow it can be managed easily enough I think; for you can pay that to him for your travelling expenses. How much did you say you would have?"

"Twelve shillings," answered Lizzie.

"Only twelve shillings! It ain't much, my dear to pay us for the risk and trouble, and—"

"Oh! But I will pay you for that by and by, Mrs. Stanley," interrupted Lizzie. "I will give you the twelve shillings as a little present."

The woman smiled to think how completely she had duped the silly girl, and how bitterly she would repent her folly by and by. But she took care not to betray any of these thoughts now. She only said, "Ah! When you are worth your weight in gold, my dear, you will be a generous friend, I know."

"Yes, that I will," said Lizzie, feeling sure that it would be easy to do this when she had plenty of money to do as she liked with.

"Now, then, we must talk about how you are to get away," said practical Mrs. Stanley, who was beginning to grow tired of the comedy. "How many clothes have you got?"

"Shall I have to bring my clothes with me?" said the girl, a little disappointed at this prospect.

"Yes, you must bring your clothes to wear until you can get better."

"I thought I should so soon get the silk dresses you spoke about, I need not trouble myself with these common things," and Lizzie looked down disdainfully at the neat print dress she wore.

Mrs. Stanley, however, regarded the dress with different feelings. "Those clothes are too good to leave behind," she said. "You might give them to me, and it would help make up for the cost of your journey."

"Very well, you shall have them then. But how am I to carry my box if nobody is to know I am going away?" she suddenly asked. "Am I to go with you to-night?"

"No, no, that'll never do. You must meet me about a mile out of the town by six o'clock on Sunday morning," said Mrs. Stanley quickly.

"But how am I to carry the box?"

"You must leave the box behind. Only bring all your clothes except your caps, you won't want them any more," said the woman.

"It'll be a big bundle to carry," said Lizzie, mentally passing in review the new underlines and cotton frocks, to say nothing of the hats and jackets that were included in that one word "clothes."

"I might take some of them with me to-night, if you like," said Mrs. Stanley in an indifferent tone.

"Oh! If you would not mind doing that, I could get away easier on Sunday morning," said Lizzie. "I will go up and pack up my clean clothes, and I can put on my best frock to come in."

"No, no, that won't do," said the woman; who thought that a girl like Lizzie, dressed in her best frock so early in the morning, would be sure to attract attention. Besides, the best frock and hat might possibly be recognized by someone she might meet, and so, to make sure that this risk was not incurred, she suggested that the best frock and hat, and as many underclothes as she could put up, should be taken away that night.

"I'll bring you a bonnet and shawl to wear on Sunday morning. One that will screen your face so that nobody shall see who you are, as they might do if you wore one of your own hats," said Mrs. Stanley.

"I wish I could go with you to carry the bundle," said Lizzie, as she lighted the candle to go to her bed-room, which was at the top of the house. "I won't be long," she said as she left the kitchen.

"Don't hurry, my dear; mind you bring all the things," said her visitor.

And while she was speaking, she untied her shoes, and before Lizzie was up the first flight of stairs she had taken a long wax taper from her pocket, lighted it at the kitchen gas, slipped off her shoes, and then crept into the dining and drawing rooms. She looked all round these to see if there was anything worth stealing among the ornaments, but only found a small silver fruit knife, which she instantly transferred to her pocket.

But she examined the window shutters at the back, and the fastenings of the street door, with a good deal of care, and then went back to the kitchen, put on her shoes again, and looked over the locks and bolts of the back door.

She was seated in the chair just where she had been left when Lizzie came down again with the bundle in her hand.

"I must be going now," she said rising from her seat. "I will bring the bonnet and shawl to-morrow night about nine o'clock, and throw it over the gate; and you must get away from here soon after five on Sunday morning, and walk to the first milestone on the London road. We shall be along there about six, and then we can hide you out of sight. But mind, if a policeman should be near you, just walk on, and don't even look at me or the caravans till I speak first."

Lizzie gave the required promise, and so they parted.

CHAPTER IV.

ONE SUMMER SUNDAY MORNING.

LIZZIE fastened the back gate securely after her visitor had departed, and returned to her little kitchen well pleased with her evening's work. She put on her cap, thinking that a day or two more only would she have to wear the odious thing, and then she fell to contemplating the grandeur that awaited her. She forgot her supper, forgot the ordinary duties of turning down the beds and making things tidy for the night—forgot everything but the visions conjured up by Mrs. Stanley's ready tongue.

Mrs. Spencer returned earlier than she was expected, and that brought Lizzie back to her present surroundings. For when the lady went upstairs, and saw the bed-room was just as she had left it, she made up her mind that the girl was incorrigible, and would have to be discharged.

"What have you been doing all the evening?" she exclaimed, when Lizzie went up in answer to her call. "I shall have to send you home, I am afraid, unless you behave very differently. Now, understand this, Elizabeth, I give you notice to-night to leave this day month; but if you choose to turn over a new leaf, and do your work in a proper manner, I shall not wish to part with you."

Lizzie tossed her head in an indifferent manner, but made no reply.

Her mistress paid her month's wages the next morning, but deducted sixpence for the broken tumbler as she had threatened, which greatly offended the girl, for she had made up her mind to take the whole twelve shillings to Mrs. Stanley.

On Saturday night, she went to bed as early as she could, for she was afraid of oversleeping herself the next morning. Five o'clock was an early hour to be astir; but she must contrive to dress and be out soon afterwards, for she was to join the Stanleys a mile beyond the town by six. The bonnet and shawl that she was to wear had been thrown over the gate on Friday night, and she had that safely tucked away in her almost empty box. The few remaining articles of her wardrobe she made into a bundle before she went to bed, and then lay down and tried to go to sleep.

But for once sleep refused to come to her eyes. She lay tossing on her pillow, her mind full of doubt now as to whether she had done a wise thing in deciding to run away with this woman. Conscience spoke, and told her it was a wrong and foolish thing to do; but she assured herself she must go on now in the path she had chosen, for she had no clothes to wear, and, therefore, she could not turn back.

A more uncomfortable night Lizzie never spent. She turned from side to side, but sleep she could not; and at last, when she heard the church clock strike two, she decided that she must not go to sleep now, for fear she should not wake up in the morning until it was too late to join her new adviser.

If the silly girl had only known it—could only have peeped a little way into the future, she would have seen that this would have been a merciful interposition of Providence; but she took care not to close her eyes again. She sat up in bed, and then got a light and a book to read. But the book did not interest her, and so she dressed herself in the clean clothes she had put ready. She made this occupy as much time as possible, and brushed and combed her hair for nearly an hour before plaiting it up again. In this way, the time went until daylight came, and then she heard several church clocks strike five, which was the signal for her to go down-stairs.

She put on her bonnet and shawl, but carried her boots in her hand, as well as the bundle, and she did not venture to put on her boots until she was safe outside the back door. There was only the bolt of the garden gate to draw then, and she would be free—free, and on her way to meet the splendid fortune that awaited her!

Once outside and in the street, Lizzie walked on with less fear, though her own echoing footsteps this still Sunday morning almost frightened her. There was not a creature to be seen, not even a milkman had made his appearance yet, and Lizzie had walked some distance before the slow heavy tread of a policeman was heard on the echoing pathway.

Of course he took no notice of the girl, and could not see her face under the close-fitting black silk bonnet, that had evidently been made for some very old lady.

So she sped on, and just as the first strokes of six were sounding through the quiet morning air, Lizzie caught sight of the line of caravans slowly lumbering down a side road from the other end of the town.

She waited for them to come up, and in a few minutes Mrs. Stanley joined her. The woman looked carefully up and down both roads, but finding there was nobody but their own party in sight, she stopped the horse of the smartest-looking caravan, and told the girl to jump in as quickly as she could.

She soon clambered up the steps into the little parlour where she had had her fortune told, and the key was turned upon her, and the horse jogged on again.

For some time Lizzie sat listening to the shaking furniture, and trying to still the throbbing of her head, which now began to ache violently. At last she lay down on the couch hoping to be able to sleep, but the shaking and bumping of the clumsy vehicle effectually prevented that.

At last, about ten o'clock, the whole cavalcade came to a standstill, after a few more bumps and shakes that threatened to overturn them every time, and then, looking out of the little window, Lizzie could see they were at the side of a large common, and preparations were being made for breakfast.

It did not disturb her at first that no one came to unfasten the door. She expected Mrs. Stanley would bring her breakfast as soon as it was ready. Of course they would not expect her to share in the rough-and-ready meal they would provide for themselves. Mrs. Stanley knew what was in store for her—the fortune that awaited her, and would contrive to get the meal as nicely served in consideration of her coming glory.

So Lizzie flattered herself, while she kept down the pangs of hunger which began to make themselves felt in spite of her headache. But an hour passed, and from the glimpse Lizzie could get from the window it seemed as though the meal was over, for boys and girls were lying about on the common, or helping to fetch water for the horses.

At last she concluded they must have forgotten her, and she began rattling the door to try and get out or attract attention. They must hear her, she felt sure, for women's voices sounded quite close; but it was some time before the door was opened.

Then Mrs. Stanley thrust in her head exclaiming, "Now then, what is it?"

Lizzie was annoyed. This was not the sort of greeting she expected to receive. "I should like some breakfast," she said, in a tone intended to be haughty and indignant.

"I daresay you would," said Mrs. Stanley with a short laugh, and then she shut and locked the door again, and left her prisoner to her meditations.

Lizzie waited and waited, but no breakfast came, and at last she lay down on the little sofa and cried herself to sleep.

Repentance had commenced. She had begun to forget her greatness and grandeur under the pangs of hunger and neglect, such as she had thought would never fall to her share again, and there was no room in her small mind for any other feeling than self-pity before she went to sleep. She had not wholly given up faith in the fortune-teller yet. To give up such high hopes all at once would be impossible. But she was angry with Mrs. Stanley, and thought she ought to treat one whom she knew was a favourite of the stars with more consideration.

Not one thought of the poor mother, who, even now, was almost wild with grief and dismay at her sudden disappearance, ever crossed Lizzie's mind yet.

She slept for two or three hours, and was rudely awakened by being rolled off the couch on to the floor. She screamed out loudly, thinking something dreadful had happened. But if her screams were heard, no notice was taken of them; and at length Lizzie regained sufficient consciousness of the past, aided by her present surroundings, to understand that they were on the road again. But looking up, the girl saw that there was a change in the aspect of the place. The windows were only half the size they were before she went to sleep; for now only a few inches at the top admitted daylight, and most of the place was in semi-darkness.

She crept across the jolting van, aided by the rattling furniture, until she reached the door, which she tried to open, but found it was still locked as before.

She began to doubt the kind intentions of her supposed friend now, and burst into tears, still rattling the handle of the door to attract the attention of her jailers.

It was some time, however, before anyone came near her. They were journeying at a good pace, faster than they had come along in the morning; and the thought suddenly came to Lizzie that perhaps some one was in pursuit of her, and they were trying to get out of the way.

Miserable as she was, this thought made her drop the handle of the door, for she did not want to be captured and taken home just as the promised fortune was within her grasp. No, no; anything but that. She would bear this hunger that was gnawing her with what patience she could muster, for fear her rattling the door-handle should attract the attention of anyone passing by.

They were passing through a town, she fancied now, by the sounds that met her ears every now and then, for she could see nothing but the sky from the narrow slits of window left unshuttered. She was left to the miserable company of her own thoughts for an hour or two longer, then the whole cavalcade came to a standstill again, and presently the door was opened.

"I suppose you want your dinner now, don't you?" said Mrs. Stanley as she came in. She carried a couple of thick slices of bread and dripping in her not over-clean hands, which she laid upon the table.

The girl put out her hand to take it; for it was nearly twenty-four hours since she had tasted food, and she was ravenously hungry.

But the woman put her hand upon it before she could do this. "Don't be in a hurry," she said with a grim smile; "we'll settle up first. Give me that twelve shillings your mistress gave you."

Lizzie put her hand into her pocket and took out her purse, not daring to disobey, for the woman's looks almost frightened her.

She turned the silver out into her hand and counted it. "There ain't twelve shillings here," she said throwing the purse on the table. "Come, hand out the other sixpence!"

"I haven't got it," said Lizzie, beginning to cry again.

"What have you done with it, then? Don't tell me no lies, or my Tom shall give you a taste of the horsewhip."

Faint from hunger, and broken-spirited already at her forlorn condition, Lizzie could only sob out her story of the broken tumbler. The woman pretended not to believe such a tale, and made it the excuse for insisting that Lizzie should strip herself that she might search her clothes. To protest was useless; the girl was soon made to do as she was told. And when her nice neat garments, that her mother had taken such pains to make for her, lay in a heap near the door, the woman suddenly opened it and kicked them out, then took a bundle from under her arm which Lizzie had not noticed before, and threw them at her feet.

"You can put them on when you're tired of being without," she said with a short laugh.

Lizzie kicked the clothes from her indignantly. She would not even unroll the bundle to see what it contained, but cowered down upon the couch, feeling herself insulted and outraged, and for the first time suspecting the good intentions of the woman in whose power she had placed herself. She would go away from them, if she was to be treated like this, she thought—she so soon to be a lady to have her clothes taken away from her. She forgot the food on the table in her anguish over this indignity, and sat huddled together crying for nearly an hour before she even looked at the garments that had been provided for her.

She was shivering with cold by that time, and looked eagerly round for the old woollen shawl she had worn in the morning. But it was nowhere to be seen now. Mrs. Stanley had taken that away with her. A little longer she sat crying and bemoaning her sad fate, then she stooped and unrolled the bundle of clothes.

The sight of the coarse, ragged, ill-washed garments brought on a fresh storm of sobs and tears, and Lizzie turned from them in disgust, sobbing out:

"Oh, mother, mother! I wish I was with you now."

But it was herself she pitied—no thought for the pain and anguish she was causing that dear mother came to Lizzie yet.

Cold at length compelled her to put on these evil-smelling garments, and when she was dressed, she ate the bread and dripping and turned to the door again. It opened at her touch now, and Mrs. Stanley, who seemed to be busy at needlework, although it was Sunday evening, was sitting on the steps.

"Eh? You're dressed at last, then," she said. "Your tea is nearly cold, I reckon. Here, Mollie," she called, "bring that mug of tea for the lady," and then Mrs. Stanley broke into a mocking laugh as she surveyed the "lady" in her ragged garments standing at the door of the caravan.

Lizzie retreated inside as the girl brought the tea, for she was ashamed to be seen in such a guise. The girl set down the tea at the top of the steps, and then returned to her employment of breaking up walnut shells into a steaming pot that hung over a fire of brushwood.

Lizzie was thirsty, and eagerly took the half-cold tea. It was weak and smoky, had been slightly sweetened with coarse sugar, but had not a drop of milk in it. The vile decoction almost made her sick after she had swallowed it, and she asked if she could not have some water to drink.

"Water! What next, I wonder? Where do you think we are to get water for you in this place?" said Mrs. Stanley, who sewed on steadily at the pink dress she was making.

Lizzie looked round then, and saw that they were on a wide desolate heath; but she learned from the talk of the men, who were lounging about smoking short black pipes, that they were not going to stay here long, but would recommence their journey again in an hour or two, and would travel on all night in order to reach some race-course in time to commence business the next day.

Was it there she was to meet her fortune, Lizzie wondered. She had heard of "races," and knew they were somehow connected with horses, but beyond this the girl's ideas were of the vaguest description, and she sat there in the doorway of the van wondering how she would have to set about the business.

She was startled by the girl superintending the steaming pot suddenly calling out:

"It's done."

"All right, turn it out to cool," said Mrs. Stanley without looking up from her work.

The whole mess was turned into a pail the next minute, and then the girl lounged off to join her companions, who were quarrelling with some boys of the party over the division of some apples one of them had stolen from a neighbouring orchard.

After a little while, Mrs. Stanley turned and glanced at Lizzie still sitting listlessly in the doorway.

"You can come out of that now," she said gruffly.

But Lizzie had no desire to be seen in her present costume, and said rather shortly, "I don't want to."

"That don't matter. You come out as I tell you, and go and give yourself a good wash in that pail," nodding as she spoke to where the girl had emptied the contents of the pot.

Lizzie looked alarmed. She had always prided herself on her white skin, and she knew the juice of walnut shells would stain it brown.

"Come on," called the woman roughly, seeing her hesitate.

The girl came slowly down the steps.

"If you please, I would rather not," she said meekly, all the pertness taken out of her now.

She stood still at the bottom of the steps, and looked imploringly at the woman she had deemed her benefactor. For answer, Mrs. Stanley dropped her work, seized Lizzie by the arm, and, before she was aware of it, had ducked her head into the pail of warm dye. She let her raise it for a minute or two that the air might dry it a little, and then dipped it again. This process she repeated two or three times, then thrust her arms in, and held her over it while she bathed her neck.

When she had finished she said, "There! Now you'll do. Your own mother wouldn't know you by the time your hair is cut."

And saying this, she returned to her work, leaving Lizzie to do as she pleased now.

CHAPTER V.

THE WAX-WORK SHOW.

WHEN the cavalcade was ready to move on again, Lizzie found she was not to occupy the parlour caravan where she had been all day, but was to sleep in another van, on some sacks of straw that were stowed in odd nooks between the wooden horses and swans of the steam roundabout.

In fact, it seemed that the whole company stowed themselves away for the night among the various portions of the show and shooting gallery that were packed in the wagons. Two or three other girls about her own age shared the strange bed-room with Lizzie, one of whom had a bad cough, and kept the rest awake a good deal.

Foolish Lizzie was too miserable to sleep. Her rough bed was not like the comfortable one she had hitherto had, neither was she used to sleep in her clothes as it seemed was the custom among her new friends. Then her companions were rough, and jeered at her when they found she was crying, so that altogether she really had very much to pity herself over now.

But the rudest shock came when all was quiet, and when apparently the rest were asleep. Lizzie was lying near the door of the van, and it seemed as though one or two persons were smoking outside, from the smell that came through the cracks of the door. They were moving at a slow pace over a tolerably smooth road, so that there was not much jolting, and Lizzie could hear pretty distinctly what was said by those sitting outside.

"Well, missis, what do yer think o' this gal now?" asked a man's voice.

"Just what I thought before—she'll be worth her weight in gold to us by and by, when she's broke in a bit."

"Ah! How do you make that out?" asked the man between the slow puffs of tobacco smoke he emitted from his mouth.

"How? Why, just this way. Our Tottie is well-nigh broke up with being among the wax-works so much, an' if she ain't soon took out of it, she'll be ill. But took out now, as I mean she shall be, she'll soon pick up enough of what I can teach her from the cards, and the lines on the hand, to tell a good fortune, and that'll pay better than all the wax-works, specially among the gents at the races, for Tottie'll pick up good looks when once she's out o' that beastly wax-work van."

"Eh! You're a deep un, Mother Stanley," said the man with a short admiring laugh.

"You've got to be in these days," said the woman.

"An' so you persuaded the little fool to join our company to release Tottie."

"Ah! But I didn't tell her that," put in Mrs. Stanley.

Lizzie knew her voice now, and sat up on her sack of straw to listen more intently. "I told her she'd be worth her weight in gold, but I didn't tell her I should have the handling of it, and of course she thought it would be for herself. I knew my lady the moment I set eyes on her. I could see by the way she looked that Sunday night, she'd be ready to do anything for the chance of getting away from steady work, so I laid my plans according. Bless you, it wasn't much trouble to persuade her, she was ready to swallow any bait and—"

"But I've heard you say you'd never take a gal away from her mother. Ain't this one got no friends?" asked the man.

"None as she cares for, or she'd ha' been none so ready to run away," said the woman.

"And you think there ain't no fear o' them making a fuss about her?" said the man a little cautiously.

"I didn't say that, now. If you asks me what I think, I say, keep a sharp eye on her these races, and then we'll get as far off as we can before we stops at another fair, and then we'll have to keep our eyes open. My belief is, after looking over all her clothes, she's got a good mother, and one as'll take no end of trouble to get her back, though she don't deserve it."

"How do you know that, Mother Stanley?" asked the man.

"How do I know it? Did she ever once say she couldn't go away 'cos of worrying her mother; not a bit of it. She thought more about the fine duds I talked of than ever she did about her mother; and when I see that, I thought to myself I'll have you, my lady, to save my poor Tottie, and teach you a lesson too before I've done with you."

"There ain't no fear but what you'll do that," said the man laughing again.

"No, there ain't; and you'll have to help me. You'll keep your eyes on her when she's talking about the wax figgers, and see she ain't up to no sly tricks with anybody. I've took care of her money, and I'll look sharp after her," concluded Mrs. Stanley.

Lizzie sat and listened in horror-struck amazement to this revelation. It was too dreadful to be believed at first. She felt sure Mrs. Stanley must be joking, and then tried to persuade herself she was telling her husband this tale just to induce him to let her remain with them for a little while.

But although she whispered to herself half aloud, "It can't—it can't be true," something spoke with more convincing power in the depths of her own spirit, and a sickening sense that the woman had spoken the truth stole over her, and well-nigh benumbed her faculties. She was too wretched to cry and sob, or indulge in any outward manifestation of sorrow, but her heart ached with a sense of desolation that well-nigh overwhelmed her.

The voices ceased outside, and her companions snored, and groaned sometimes as the clumsy vehicle lurched on one side as they passed over an extra rough piece of the road; but smooth or rough, it made no difference to Lizzie. The blessed relief of sleep came not to her that night.

And the morning dawned and they drew up at the corner of a common to give the tired horses some refreshment, and prepare a hasty breakfast for those who had been up all night.

No notice was taken of Lizzie. She was allowed to wander about among the dogs, horses, and children; but she knew she was being watched by more than one pair of deep dark eyes, and that it would be useless for her to try to escape even if she knew her road home again.

No; she could not escape in these ragged garments. She must wait and watch, and try to get some of her own clothes back again. Ah! What a fool she had been to give these up so readily. What would she not have given to have the last few days of her life over again? She wrung her hands in anguish as she walked up and down the common and thought of it all.

They did not make a long halt at this place. Only long enough to refresh the tired beasts, and the men who had been driving them all night, and then they were on the road again; for they were to reach the race-course by ten o'clock, and they still had several miles to travel. If Lizzie had cherished any lingering hope that the words she had heard in the night were not true in actual fact, she was quickly undeceived; for just before they started on their journey again she was summoned to the parlour van, where she found Mrs. Stanley busily sewing at the old pink tarlatan dress previously worn by Tottie, but which the woman now proceeded to try on her.

"Didn't I tell you that you'd be wearing a smart frock soon?" she said with a grim smile as she proceeded to fasten the soiled tumbled dress, which she had been enlarging so as to make it fit Lizzie's plump figure.

The girl looked at it with disgust. "I don't call this a fine dress," she said; "and it isn't the sort—"

A ringing box of the ears cut short this speech. "Take that," said the woman, as she sent the girl reeling across the room from the blow. "If your mother had given you a few tastes of this sort of thing, I shouldn't be bothered with you."

Lizzie checked the tears that rose to her eyes, and was about to say she need not be bothered with her, she would go home again, but a look at the woman's face convinced her that it would be more prudent to hold her tongue about this; and so she resolutely kept silent, and was careful to stand still while the woman finished the work of fitting on the dirty-fine frock.

When the race-course was reached, everybody set to work to help get the shows set up, and the steam roundabout set going, and as soon as the wax figures were dusted and set in their places, Lizzie was dressed in the pink frock, and received her first lesson in the duties of her new office.

Mrs. Stanley went round the show with a cane in her hand, with which she pointed at the different figures ranged along each side, making Lizzie repeat each sentence after her.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," bawled the woman, "this is Lady Jane Grey, who had her head cut off for trying to kill Queen Mary, and this is Mrs. Manning who murdered another man in London. What!" she exclaimed, as Lizzie touched her on the shoulder to suggest that the historical information concerning Lady Jane Grey was not quite accurate.

"Lady Jane didn't try to kill Queen Mary," repeated Lizzie, who began to think her lot might not be quite so hard.

"Perhaps you'll tell me Mrs. Manning didn't try to kill a man in London, and wasn't hung in a black satin dress afterwards," said the woman scornfully.

"I don't know anything about Mrs. Manning," said Lizzie shrinkingly, as she caught sight of the angry glare in the woman's eyes.

"No, nor you ain't wanted to know anything," retorted Mrs. Stanley. "You ain't wanted to teach them as has been in the show business nigh on twenty year, but just do as you're told, and learn the lesson as it's taught yer."

And then she resumed her march round the show, giving the various figures names and characters in a jumbled-up fashion that perfectly amazed Lizzie. For she could read, while no one else in the company had ever mastered its difficulties beyond spelling words of three letters; and so the account of those the figures were intended to represent had been received verbally by Mrs. Stanley, when she bought them second-hand of a man who was going out of the business. Whether the original accounts at all agreed with those she now gave out, it would be hard to decide. She stuck to it that her version was the only correct one.

While Lizzie, who had read a good many of the books from the Sunday-school library, had learned a very different account of the various historical personages who were supposed to be represented at this wax-work exhibition, and it was difficult to disentangle the true from the false when it came to her turn to go round and repeat the lesson she had received.

"Lady Jane Grey was beheaded on Tower Hill for—"

"There ain't nothing about Tower Hill in it," roared Mrs. Stanley. "You nasty obstinate hussy, I'll give you such a taste of horsewhip, if you don't mind what I say to you, that you'll be one big ache all over when you go to bed to-night."

Lizzie looked at her tyrannical mistress and shivered, for she knew she would not hesitate to put her threat into execution, and so she tried harder to remember the garbled accounts delivered by Mrs. Stanley. In the case of Mrs. Manning and other murderers, who figured largely in the show, she had little difficulty in giving the exact account delivered by her mistress, because she had no preconceived ideas to get rid of, never having heard their names before, but when "Bloody Mary" was credited with cutting the disputed child in halves, it was so clear that the figure of Solomon had somehow disappeared from this scene, that Lizzie once more ventured a remonstrance.

But a sharp cut with the cane that Mrs. Stanley still carried, soon reduced her historical knowledge to a quiet acquiescence in the dictum of its latest exponent, and the next being murderers again, Lizzie got on better.

One more round, and then Mrs. Stanley, with a critical eye to Lady Jane Grey and Bloody Mary, pronounced her deliverance "pretty well."

These two, however, had to be repeated, and then Lizzie was left to make a further acquaintance with the hideous waxen effigies, while Mrs. Stanley went off to superintend the preparations for dinner.

Lizzie had had nothing but a few slices of bread and dripping by way of food since the previous Saturday, but to-day she had a good dinner of beef-steak and new bread, and felt better prepared for the opening of the show after she had eaten it.

This corner of the race-course, where they had taken up their quarters, was just like the fair-ground she had visited the previous week. She recalled the disgust she had felt when standing outside the faded red curtain across the doorway, and first smelt the sawdust and paraffin fumes with which the atmosphere was charged. Now that the lamps were all alight, and the back door closed, and the show ready for business to commence, the recollections of that scene was brought forcibly back to her recollection by the smell that almost immediately pervaded the place.

What a fool she had been! She did not need anyone else to tell her, that in trying to escape from the duties of her own station in life, she had thrown herself into a slavery that was ten times worse than anything she could have imagined possible when she was in a comfortable place of domestic service.

She might have relapsed into tears of self-pity over the plight she had brought herself into, but there was Stanley at the door, and if he took a less active part in the management of affairs than his wife, he would not fail to tell her of anything Lizzie might do that was not calculated to promote the "business."

Now, tears in the attendant at a wax-work show, whose lot in life is supposed to be as rosy as her gaudy dress, would never do; and when the man, thrusting his head behind the curtain, saw Lizzie sitting down in one corner looking very woe-begone and tired, he roared out:

"Come now, that won't do! Just jump up and be brisk, and look lively, not like a monkey going to be hung!"

Then the curtain dropped, and above the loud bawling of, "Walk up, walk up, ladies and gentlemen, and see the best sight at the races," she could hear the clatter of feet outside, and the rattle of halfpence, and the next minute a little knot of rough boys, laughing and chaffing each other, pushed their way into the show, and Lizzie's work began. But her voice trembled now that she was in the actual presence of her first audience, and she faltered so much that one of them called out:

"Come, speak up, young woman."

The next minute, Stanley's head was pushed in, and he said sharply: "Come, be brisk there, and show the gentlemen round the show."

"I am," gasped Lizzie; but she was obliged to seize hold of the rail behind which the figures were ranged, to support herself for a minute or two. But the faintness went off, and Lizzie went on with her description until this party of visitors had gazed their fill at the glass-eyed, wooden-faced monstrosities, and by the time they had departed, another party had gathered and were waiting to be admitted, and when they had filed in, Lizzie began again, and once more detailed how Lady Jane Grey tried to kill Queen Mary, and "Bloody Mary" ordered the child brought before Solomon to be divided.

She could see a grim smile on the faces of one or two visitors as they listened to these wonderful details, but she did not dare alter her statements in the least, for fear of the horsewhipping that would certainly follow upon such a breach of discipline, and so she repeated the words at last in the same mechanical tone Tottie had adopted, and scarcely knew what she was saying before the weary day came to an end.

Round and round she went, repeating the words to various parties of visitors; for they were new-comers to this race meeting, and the wax-work show was a novelty that everybody wanted to see. So business was brisk all day, and far into the night, to Mrs. Stanley's great satisfaction and her victim's intolerable disgust.

Her head ached, her back ached, her feet ached, her throat was sore and parched from bawling incessantly amid the fumes of paraffin, and when at last, the hour of release came, and she could take off her tawdry finery and lie down on the sack of straw that was thrown in at the back door as soon as the last visitor had departed, she could only stretch out her arms and sob out:

"Oh, mother! I wish I had died before I ran away from you."

Mrs. Stanley was well pleased with her day's work and the store of pence that had been collected at the entrance, and she set open the back door that Lizzie might have some share in the feasting and merry-making that always went on among themselves after a good day's business.

But Lizzie had no heart for merry-making, and the coarse jests and riotous laughter would rather have disgusted than pleased her, even if she had been well. Neither did she care for the bountiful supper of tripe and onions that was handed up to her. She felt too sick and sore to eat; she only longed for rest, and to be able to go back to her mother and the situation she had so rashly left.

But the next day, the same dreary round had to be gone through, and the next, and the next, for a sort of fair was held after the races were over, and then they journeyed on again, farther and farther from the spot to which the runaway was longing to return.

CHAPTER VI.

ANOTHER MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.

WHEN Lizzie's flight was discovered, her master went at once to tell her mother and father, and advised that Mr. Betts should go with him and inform the police of what had happened.

This was done, and by ten o'clock that Sunday morning, every policeman in the town had received instructions to look after a girl in a straw hat carrying a bundle.

But, as we know, Lizzie was not likely to be met with near any of the routes these policemen would traverse; and so Jack and her father, as well as her master and mistress, went in vain to the police-station for news of her, for no one had seen a girl answering such a description as was given, within reach of the town that day. From sheer inability to sit still and do nothing, Jack and his father had gone in search of her themselves.

Emma Russell was visited, and asked all sorts of questions; but beyond the fact that Lizzie did not like service, and wanted to go home and help her mother with the washing, she knew nothing. Certainly she had never heard her say anything about going away. She had not seen her for a week; for although they had arranged to meet and walk home together on Wednesday, and Emma had waited at the corner of the road for her, Lizzie never came, and she, Emma, had been obliged to run all the way home to make up for the time she had wasted in waiting.

Jack pondered over this; for, although there seemed nothing in it likely to lead to the solution of the mystery at first, taken in connection with another little bit of information that he learned during the day, it might have some important bearing in the case.

Lizzie had been out that Wednesday evening, he heard; for someone had seen her hurrying in the direction of Snowfields with her best hat on, and another friend had seen her leave the fair, talking to a stout woman dressed in a plaid shawl. The friend had not spoken to Lizzie, for he thought the woman might be a neighbour who had come to take care of her, as it was rather late for a girl like Lizzie to be out.

So Jack's next quest was for this woman, and he went home to ask his mother which of the neighbours wore a plaid shawl. And the garments usually worn by everybody they knew were discussed; but only about two had ever been seen in plaid shawls, and they were by no means stout individuals.

But still Jack went to make inquiries of them, for he was ready to catch at any straw that was likely to afford a clue to the heart of this mystery; but, of course, he met with blank disappointment. Neither of these people had seen Lizzie lately, nor had they been near Snowfields for some months.

So he had to turn homewards once more, with the dreary tale of failure written on his face. Lizzie's mistress, however, could give some confirmation of the fact about her being out late on Wednesday, and that she had given her notice to leave in consequence of her carelessness the next night, hoping that this might have the effect of making her more careful in future, which if it did, she had told her, she would look over the past and let her stay.

This confirmation of the fact that Lizzie had gone to the fair instead of going home, made Jack persistently cling to the idea that Lizzie's disappearance was somehow connected with the fair-folks. He had learned from the police that most of the vans that had stood here bore the name of Stanley, but beyond this he could learn nothing. They laughed at him when he suggested that they had run away with his sister. Girls of fifteen, able to talk and walk, could not be carried off against their will; and, besides:

"What could these gypsy folks do with a girl like her?" the policeman asked.

Jack shook his head. The question puzzled him, but still he held on to his notion. He knew the disappearance of his sister was somehow connected with these fair-folks, and he tried to find out where they were going next, that he might go after them.

But nobody could tell him this; for nobody had troubled themselves about these nomadic people, who came and went without exciting much notice or much remark. The steam roundabout and all the shows were in full swing on Saturday night, and they had entirely disappeared by seven o'clock on Sunday morning, leaving nothing but dirt and refuse behind.

"Yes, and it was early on Sunday morning that Lizzie went away," said Jack to the man who gave him this information. "Her mistress called her at half-past seven, but she was gone; and the back door and back gate were unfastened, so that she went early too."

The police, however, had formed quite another theory to account for the girl's disappearance. They did not condescend to tell anybody what this was; but it came out in a day or two, that her mistress had lost a silver fruit knife, which she was certain she had used a day or two before the girl went away, and left it in the sideboard drawer.

Of course, as this article had been missed, other articles might have been taken also; and when her poor mother heard of this, and that her only girl was branded as a thief, her grief and distress was increased tenfold. As for her father, it well-nigh killed him. The mental depression caused by want of employment had already begun to affect his health, and now he seemed to give up all hope and desire for life. So long as there was any chance of finding Lizzie in the town, he tramped on unweariedly; but when this failed, and the discovery was made that the silver fruit knife was missing, and must have been taken by Lizzie, the poor man uttered a groan of anguish and fell back in his chair like one demented. He made no further effort to find Lizzie. She was lost, he said—lost beyond recovery.

Her husband's failing health now imposed a double burden upon poor Mrs. Betts; for he was soon unable to move from his chair beside the fire, and had to be waited on like a confirmed invalid. Jack, however, was young and strong, and he was very angry at the charge of theft being brought against his sister. He loved her still in spite of appearances being so much against her. She was foolish, he admitted—all girls were; but Lizzie had never stolen that knife, he was sure, and he would go in search of her though he had to tramp all over England before he found her.

Lizzie's dearest friend, Emma, applauded his resolution. She too was quite sure Lizzie would never steal the knife. And if she never came back, her character ought to be cleared, and her brother ought to do all he could, as nobody else was able to do much.

So after a week had passed away in fruitless searchings and inquiries, Jack shouldered his father's basket of tools and set off on tramp to look for work and look for his sister.

He was two years older than Lizzie; but, although little more than a lad himself, he had learned the trade of a whitesmith in all its branches, and was a skilful and steady workman. He could hang a bell, repair a lock, stop a leak in a water pipe, and do many other odd jobs. And after taking counsel with his mother, he set off on the Monday morning, determined to earn his bread at least by the use of his tools. His mother gave him a shilling or two—all she could spare, and bread enough to last him through the day.

She parted from him with tears, and many injunctions to be careful and write to her as soon as he had any news of Lizzie. And although some of their friends looked upon his plan as a harebrained scheme, still it was a comfort to the poor mother to think someone had gone in search of her foolish girl, and any day might bring tidings of her now Jack had fairly set off.

She tried to cheer her husband with hopes of Jack getting a good job of work while he was searching for Lizzie; for, though work was scarce here, it did not follow that it must be so everywhere. Her Jack was a steady lad, and a master would soon learn to know his value and be glad to employ him.

This was her constant theme when with her husband. For she wanted to draw his mind away from its continual brooding over Lizzie and the missing knife, for it was the only chance of saving him from sinking into hopeless melancholy, the doctor said—for a doctor had been called in to attend him since he had been so much worse.

The poor man would listen to his wife's cheery, hopeful words, and appear to dwell upon them for a few minutes, but, left to himself, he would soon relapse into his former hopeless despondency, and murmur half aloud, "Our girl is lost—quite lost now."

Meanwhile, Jack having ascertained by which route the fair-folks had left the town, took the same road in pursuit of them. He did not ask for work at all the first day, but was careful to inquire at the public-houses he passed whether they had seen some show and gypsy vans pass by that way about a week before.

Of course, in many instances people had forgotten all about this fact, even if they paid any attention to it at the time, and so it was not easy to glean any intelligence of them now. But by persistent inquiries, and explaining why he was so anxious to trace them, Jack learned enough to convince him that he was on their track, and now he must be careful not to lose the trail. A boy showed him where they had lighted a fire on the heath, and by noting this and other marks upon the grass, the lad thought he should be able to detect where they had been in other places.

By the time he reached the next town, he was tired out, and had eaten most of the bread and cheese his mother had tied up in a handkerchief for him. So he decided to look out for a job of work that would earn for him a supper and a night's lodging, and he was fortunate enough to find something he could do almost as soon as he entered the town.

An old man was struggling with a restive horse, and Jack, seeing he was in some danger, put his basket of tools down in a place of safety, and ran to his assistance.

It seemed that the lock of the stable door was broken, and the horse had kicked away the frail fastening the old man had put up to keep the door closed, and so had got out and had broken through a hedge into a neighbouring garden.

"I can mend the lock, perhaps," said Jack. "Let me look at it."

"I wish you could, my lad," said the man; "for it's a good strong lock, though it is old-fashioned."

"Well, we'll tie up the horse, and then I'll soon have the lock off, and see what's amiss with it."

The animal, finding it was no use to resist any further, gave up the struggle, and allowed himself to be led into the stable and secured there, while Jack fetched his basket of tools and set to work to take off the lock.

It was a large old-fashioned thing, very dirty and rusty, and the spring quite ruined.

"It will take me an hour or two to clean it, and I must get a new spring for it; but when that is done, the lock will be as good as ever," said Jack, rubbing off some of the rust with his finger as he spoke.

"How much will it cost to do it up? It's worth a dozen of any new-fangled sort I could buy now," added the man.

Jack turned it over and looked at it again. "I'll do the work for a shilling, if you'll buy the spring," he said. "It won't cost much; only twopence or threepence," he added.

"All right! You shall do it then; and I'll fetch a cup of tea and a bite of bread and butter for you that you may get it done before dark. You leave your tools here, and go and get the spring." And he told Jack where he would find a shop that was likely to supply it, and gave him sixpence to pay for it.

"You'll do no good with that old lock," said the ironmonger when he saw what Jack wanted the spring for.

"Oh, yes, I shall. It's clumsy, but it's a good lock, and worth taking some trouble over."

The man turned it about, and looked at it again. "I tell you what," he said, "if you can make that lock answer, I'll give you work to-morrow."

"Thank you, I'll be glad of a day's work; and when I've finished this job, I'll bring it to you to look at it," said Jack.

He ran back with the spring he had bought, and very soon had the lock to pieces, and was busy cleaning the different parts of it. This sort of work he had often done for his father, and he did not mind the trouble of rubbing, and scrubbing, and scraping that was required to remove the rust. It took him a long time to clean the old thing thoroughly, and make it serviceable again; but the lock was a good one and worth the trouble, and when at last Jack had got it all fitted together again, he was delighted to find that it would work as easily as possible.

"Now, I want to show it to the man at the shop where I bought the spring," said Jack, as he looked at his work triumphantly. "He'll give me a job to-morrow, he says, if I make anything of this."

"All right! You shall show it to him; and you may tell him from me, he ain't got a lock in his shop like it," said the old man, who was very proud of his clumsy lock.

Jack carried it to the smith's, who was just putting up his shutters, and told Jack to wait in the shop until he had finished.

So Jack spread his arms on the counter, as he was in the habit of doing, and his eyes went roving round until they lighted on something he had not expected to see in a little smith's shop like this.

"I say, mister," called Jack, as soon as the man appeared, "where did you get that silver knife? It's a fruit knife, ain't it?"

"Yes, I believe it is. But what do you want to know about it for?"

Then Jack told of his sister's mysterious disappearance, and how she was accused of stealing a knife just like this one.

"Where did you get it?" he asked eagerly.

"Well, I bought it about a week ago, of a woman who brought it into the shop to ask if I could tell her whether it was silver. She had just picked it up as she came across the heath, she said."

"Was she a stout woman, wearing a plaid shawl?" said Jack.

Yet why he asked the question he could not tell, for would it not be a confirmation of Lizzie's guilt, if it could be proved that the woman she was seen leaving the fair with, and the one who sold this knife, were the same person?

The man looked at the lad's anxious face, and said cautiously: "I don't want no bother with the police. If you know anything about the knife, why, I'll let you have it for what I gave for it."

But Jack shook his head to this proposal. "I haven't got any money to spare," he said; "but I should like you to show it to the police, and tell them where you got it."

But the "bother" of having anything to do with the police almost frightened the man, and it was not until Jack had appealed to him, and told him about his father's illness and his mother's despair, that he would consent to lock it up in his desk, and keep it out of sight until he should hear more about the business from Jack by and by.

Then he looked at the lock, and offered Jack employment at once. But the lad explained how he had left home in search of his sister, and could not give up the quest until he had learned something about her. He would stay in the town through the following day, and do a few odd lobs that were ready, and make inquiries as to whether anyone had seen the gypsy vans passing through the town, and which route they had taken.

He went back to fasten the lock on the stable door, wondering at the chance or providence that had sent him to the shop where that knife was to be seen. He felt sure that it was the one that had been taken from Mrs. Spencer's house; but the fact that the woman who had sold it was the same one who was seen leaving the fair with his sister seemed to connect her directly with the theft.

Poor Jack pondered over this as he screwed on the lock securely, and afterwards, when he went in search of a cheap lodging for the night. He could think of nothing but the finding of this knife, which, simple as it was, seemed almost as mysterious, as he thought over it, as the disappearance of Lizzie herself.

He got a bed, but having had a good tea, he would not spend any of his money on supper to-night; for he did not know what he might want before Lizzie was found.

So he went to work the next morning as he had promised, but pushed his inquiries about the gypsy vans, and whether anyone had seen a stout woman dressed in a plaid shawl.

"Why, yes! And she had a red face, and a red rose in her bonnet," said one gossiping woman, who heard Jack's question about this.

"And was she with people who had gypsy vans?" asked Jack eagerly.

"To be sure she was—owns some of them herself, I believe," said his informant. "Leastways it was said she did when they put up here for one winter."

"These people stayed here all the winter?" said Jack, thinking the woman could surely tell him all about them, and where they were likely to be found now.

But no! It seemed this woman could give him just enough information to make him desirous of knowing more, but there she had to stop. They had stayed in this neighbourhood all the previous winter, but had gone away in the spring, and had not been seen since until the previous week, when they passed through the town again. But where they had gone now, she did not know, and probably they did not know themselves, she told Jack.

So the lad finished his work for that day, took his money at night, and started off early the next morning in pursuit of these people, who, he felt sure, knew something of his sister, if they had not actually carried her off with them.

About the middle of that day, he picked up a little strip of a print dress that struck him as being familiar, and he decided to send a little piece of it in a letter to his mother, and ask her if it was not a piece of Lizzie's frock.

He had found it on the side of a common, near a spot where a fire had evidently been lighted, and which bore other traces of being used as a camping-ground for a short time. He wished now he had followed them up sooner, but still he was thankful for this small proof that he was on the right track still.

And when he reached the village beyond, he got writing materials, and sent off a piece of the rag he had picked up, by way of cheering his mother, and giving her fresh hope that Lizzie might yet be found.

CHAPTER VII.

REPENTANCE.

JACK was elated over the success that had attended his efforts thus far. And although at the little village where he passed the second night of his wanderings, he could hear nothing of the cavalcade of vans, or which road they had taken, he felt so sure he was on the right track that he went on again the next day, and again saw traces of a camp-fire, which reassured him. And he felt confident now that he should soon overtake the company he was in search of.

He had to spend his money for food and lodging now, and, careful as he was, the last shilling was changed on Thursday, and he seemed no nearer finding his sister than when he first started from home.

He must have lost the track of those he was in search of, too, he began to fear; for he could hear nothing of fair-folks or show-vans in the town he had now reached. The only gypsy vans that had been seen in that neighbourhood were the travelling hawkers, who sold brooms, brushes, baskets, and mats, and displayed their wares outside the vans. Two of these had perambulated the neighbourhood a few days previously, he was told; and he began to fear that he must have been misled by the camp-fires of these itinerant dealers, and so lost the trail of those he was in search of.

So there was nothing for it but to look about for work where he was. But Jack was not so successful here as he had been at the first town he made his stopping-place.

Nobody wanted a lock mended or a pipe repaired, or at least they did not feel disposed to employ a stranger like this lad. So the poor fellow was soon reduced to great distress, and began to fear he should have to sell some of his tools for subsistence, when he met a gentleman who was in search of a workman who could stop a leaky pipe at once. No one he had met with could undertake to do it until the next day, and therefore he was glad to employ Jack.

He soon did the job, neatly and effectively, and the gentleman was so pleased with the way it was done, that he gave him a bath to repair and paint, and several other articles of domestic use to put in order, which he did in an outhouse the next day.

By this means a few shillings were earned, and the week came to an end. And on Sunday, he started off on another route; for he had heard of a fair being held a few miles off, and he did not doubt that the Stanleys would make for this point, and here he should catch them.

But alas for his hopes! He reached the fair-ground in time to see the close of the frolic, but no van bore the name of Stanley, and no one had seen any shows answering to the description of theirs.

Weary and disheartened, the poor fellow decided to stay here long enough to receive a letter from his mother, and hear how she and his father were, and whether the bit of rag he had sent home in his last letter was a piece of Lizzie's frock.

So again he went in search of work. The gentleman for whom he had done the repairing had kindly written a letter giving his name and address as reference, and stating what he had done for him in the way of repairs. He had likewise recommended him to go to a certain shop in the High Street, where he himself was known to the proprietor, and it so happened that they were pressed with work just then, and glad to take on an extra hand, especially as he was recommended by some one so well known.

So Jack decided to stay there for a week or two, and earn a little money before he went any further. The answer to his letter came in due course from his mother, who was very glad to have heard from her boy. She was well, she said, but there was very little improvement in his father's condition. The bit of stuff he had sent in his previous letter was certainly a piece of one of Lizzie's frocks, and looked as though it had been torn off the hem at the bottom. They had received no news of her, and the police seem to have given up all hope of tracing her now, wrote poor Mrs. Betts.

And Jack could read the unwritten prayer these words contained, and he said aloud as he read them: "Never fear, Mother, I don't mean to give up the search till I have found these people, and make them tell me what they have done with her."

And this assurance he sent to his mother that night, telling them at the same time that he had got work that might last a week or two, and that he intended to stay there and save a little money to travel with. There was some chance that they might come to a fair that would be held in a neighbouring town in a few weeks' time; for he had made it his business to inquire about all the fairs that were held within a dozen miles of this place.

To hear that the bit of rag he had found was a piece of his sister's frock was some encouragement at least, for it proved that if she was not actually with them, they must know something about her.

So Jack went on with his work, and proved himself a steady, capable, painstaking workman, giving satisfaction to his employer, and making himself helpful and agreeable to his fellow-workmen. He made no secret of the errand that had brought him into the neighbourhood, and all who heard his story sympathized with him, and many wrote to friends at a distance asking them to notice all the travelling companies of show people that came near them, and to give information at once if any of the name of Stanley should appear.

Jack was thankful indeed for these efforts made on his behalf; for as he was earning money now, if news came that the vans he was in search had appeared in a certain neighbourhood, he could go by railway to some point near the place, and so reach them before they had time to get away.

So he wrote and told his mother of all this, and that he thought he could not do better than stay where he was, as work was brisk; another thing, as winter was coming on now, they might be expected to turn up at their old quarters nearer home, in which case, they would doubtless soon hear of them and Lizzie too.

But, although he wrote thus hopefully to his mother, he could not help growing bitter against his sister as the weeks went on and no news came from her. Whatever her motive might have been for going away, surely she might have written a line to assure her mother of her safety. She could write, she knew her mother's address, whereas they were cut off from all knowledge of her or where she might be found.

She was a wicked cruel girl, he assured himself sometimes, and at others he made up his mind she had been killed or was kept in such close confinement somewhere that she could not communicate with anyone. On the whole, he was more inclined to take this view of the matter; in which case, he agreed she could not be travelling with this gypsy party, or she could surely find some opportunity of making her escape, if she had wished to do so, or of writing a letter if she had felt so disposed.

He and Lizzie had both attended Sunday-school; but it was small comfort to him at first to think of what he had learned there—that God cares for his people, and had promised to protect them in all dangers and difficulties.

Lizzie had learned this; but she had clearly placed herself in the way of temptation and danger, and how could she expect that God would take care of her then. At length, however, he began to understand, through his own love for the silly wilful girl, that God would not cease to care for her and protect her because she had been foolish and wilful, but it might well be that he would punish her for what she had done; and who could tell, but that in letting her have her own way for a little while, he was going to teach her the folly of her wilfulness and discontent? For Jack knew all about this, and had often tried to reason her out of it.

This view of the matter comforted the poor fellow a good deal; and when he kneeled down at night, he never failed to pray for Lizzie as well as his mother and father, beseeching God to guide and protect her wherever she might be, and to bring her home safely at last. It helped to make him patient under this long weary waiting for news. For although he contrived to go to several fairs during the autumn, in the hope of seeing the Stanley vans, they never appeared at any of the places, and, indeed, it seemed as though the whole company had vanished from the sight of living men.

If the police had only tried to trace them when they first went away, they would doubtless soon have been found. But they scouted the notion of gypsies running off with a girl of fifteen, and never would entertain it, though Mrs. Betts went to them with the scrap of rag Jack had found, and assured them it was a piece of one of Lizzie's frocks. They questioned and cross-questioned her as to where this piece of stuff had been found, and when they learned that it had been picked up on a common at some distance, and not in the immediate neighbourhood of the fair-folks, they simply declined to take any action in the matter, and assured the anxious mother that these people were not likely to have run away with her daughter.

Meanwhile poor Lizzie was having a hard time of it, and, in addition to the actual hardships of her lot, was most unhappy now upon her mother's account; for she felt sure that her mysterious disappearance would be a source of great anxiety to her. She had not thought of this at all at first. But then it must be remembered that she anticipated having a fortune soon after she left home; and to be able to write and tell her mother she was a rich lady would compensate her, she thought, for any anxiety she might have suffered.

Lizzie had learned by this time how vain that hope had been from the very first. It was hard to give it up—to think that the miserable life she had entered upon was to have no end. But when she thought of her mother, and the unhappiness she had caused her, she could not but feel that it was a just punishment for her ingratitude and discontent.

How gladly she would have gone back to Mrs. Spencer's now, to escape from her present masters and mistresses; for the whole company she was with, contrived to make poor Lizzie feel that she was their slave, since she would not be their companion and join in their riotous fun. Her refusal to do this at first was scarcely noticed. Mrs. Stanley said she was bound to be sulky when she found the promised fortune was never likely to fall into her hands. And so, during the time they were on the race-course, they left her a good deal to herself, and if she was tired, she was allowed to rest in peace when the show was closed for the night.

But it would not do to let her continue this mode of behaviour any longer. She had joined their company of her own free will, and they would put up with no fine-lady airs. If they chose to be jolly when they were in luck, why, they were not going to have her sour face spoiling their pleasure, nor should she set up for being better than they; and she was told this plainly before they reached the next halting-place, which was on the borders of Scotland. Here a popular fair was held every year, and by dint of hurrying they contrived to reach the fair-ground on Sunday night, and had the shows and roundabouts ready to commence business early on Monday morning.

They had to be up nearly all night, and when the necessary work was at length accomplished, Mrs. Stanley brought out a bottle of gin and a glass, to treat all the company to a dose before they lay down for the few hours' rest that they might hope to snatch before the business of the next day began.

"No, thank you," said Lizzie, when the woman came to the door of the van whore she had thrown herself down on a sack of straw to try and get a little rest.

"Take it," said the woman. "It'll do yer good."

"No, thank you," repeated Lizzie. "I promised Mother once I would never drink anything like that."

"Ha, ha! That's a good un, that is," said Mrs. Stanley with a harsh laugh. "A lot you care for your mother, don't yer. You needn't think to come it over me with that tale. I don't mean to put up with no more o' them obstinate tricks. You best take hold o' this glass, and drink down every drop o' this gin."

Lizzie hesitated for a moment. Should she yield and drink it for peace sake. She sat up on her sack of straw, and by the dim light of the tallow candle which she carried she looked in the angry inflamed face of Mrs. Stanley.

"I can't drink it," she said firmly, after a pause. "If I never see my mother again, I won't break this one promise I gave her."

"Now, look here. I'm your mother now, and your my gal—remember that; and all as I tell you to do you've got to do. Ah! And call me 'Mother' too," said the angry woman, forgetting all prudence in her passion.

Now Lizzie, as she trudged at the side of the van that day, had been comparing her own dear unselfish mother with this woman, who seemed to consider that her children only existed to be a source of gain to her. For poor sickly Tottie had been provided with a large basket filled with laces, buttons, servants' caps, and various small articles, that would afford her an excuse for calling at the various houses they passed, where she could also offer to tell fortunes to those silly enough to listen to her. The girl had begged and pleaded that she did not feel well enough to do this, and did not sufficiently understand the business of fortune-telling; but her mother would take no excuse. Money must be got in, she said; and, now she had secured another girl for the show, Tottie must make money with her basket.

Lizzie had heard the altercation between mother and daughter, and it brought forcibly before her mental gaze her own dear mother, and the care that had been taken of her—Lizzie—when she was ill once. And so to be asked now to use the precious sacred name of "mother" to the woman who had so cruelly deceived her, was too revolting to be thought of.

"No, no, I will never do that," she said passionately, carried away by the strong feeling that the woman's words had evoked.

"What? You dare to tell me you won't do a thing I bid you do!" said the woman in a tone of wrath. "Now I say you shall call me 'Mother,' and shall say it now too!" exclaimed the virago, setting down the glass of gin she held in her hand, and stepping inside the van to take summary vengeance on the girl who had defied her.

Several others of the company had gathered round by this time, and Stanley himself, who knew what was impending, elbowed his way to the front. He did not often interfere with his wife's management, for he knew she could do it a good deal better than he could, but when he saw she was likely to spoil a chance of making money for the sake of her temper, he would put in a word of reason.

So following her into the van, he laid his hand upon her shoulder, and whispered, "Look here now, don't you go and spile that gal for her day's work to-morrow, jist for the sake of your temper. She's to be worth her weight in gold to us, yer know; but she won't be worth a brass farthing if yer kicks up a row with her, and whacks her as you've whacked Tottie sometimes."

"Now, you go down and mind yer own business, and let me manage this young vixen my own way," said the woman, speaking very loud, and giving her husband a push that almost sent him down the steps of the van. He caught hold of the door-post, however, and saved himself, and then seized his wife's arm as she picked up a heavy leather strap to beat Lizzie with.

"Don't be a fool now," he hissed in her ears. "Don't you know the police are about, and if she screams, they'll come to know what's a matter."

"What do I care for the police? They can't do nothing to me. I didn't carry her off. She came to me and begged me to be a mother to her, 'cos she couldn't abide her own mother, and the hard place she was at," said Mrs. Stanley, turning upon her husband, and flourishing the strap in her hand still.

"Well, never mind; we don't want no police round here now. We want an hour's pitch before the work begins," said the man in a reasoning tone.

"And I mean to be a mother to that gal," said Mrs. Stanley, still shaking the strap at her threateningly.

"You put that strap down and come away. If you lay her up, as you will do if you once begin, you'll be sorry for it yerself to-morrow. If you hadn't had a drop too much out of that bottle, you wouldn't begin a row just as we've come to a fresh place. Do you want us to get kicked off the ground before the fair begins?" demanded Stanley.

He was beginning to lose his temper now. He did not often venture to interfere with anything his wife thought fit to do; but he knew well enough that she would never have taken this course if she had not drunk pretty freely, and the idea that money might be lost, all through this fit of temper, provoked him.

"I'll give it to her," said Mrs. Stanley still threateningly, but in wavering tones now.

"All right! Give it to her as much as you like when the fair is over, and it won't interfere with business," said the man.

"Ah! And I will," said Mrs. Stanley, dropping the strap and looking vengefully at Lizzie. "I'll let her know whether she's to defy me as she did her other mother. I'll teach her a different lesson, I'll warrant," and she slowly turned and went down the steps after her husband.

Lizzie crept back to her hard dirty bed trembling in every limb, but firm in her resolve neither to drink gin nor call this woman "mother." She might beat her, but she would never yield. And that night Lizzie kneeled down at the side of her sack, and prayed to God to help her, and to comfort and help the dear mother she had forsaken.

CHAPTER VIII.

CONCLUSION.

IN spite of the dreadful threats held before her by Mrs. Stanley, Lizzie went to sleep almost as soon as she lay down again on her unsavoury bed, and slept until the noise of the dogs and first shrieks of the steam whistle roused her. She jumped up then and threw open the door of the van, and began shaking the dresses of the ghastly wax figures, and whisking off the dust with a feather brush. Then she washed herself at a pail of water where the other girls had already gathered, and put on the pink tarlatan dress ready to begin her dreary work of the day.

After a hasty breakfast of dry bread and weak coffee, that had been allowed to get nearly cold, Lizzie took her place beside Lady Jane Grey, ready for the first group of visitors.

This fair lasted nearly the whole week, and as the weather was fine, and the wax-work show fairly successful, Mrs. Stanley's temper somewhat improved, and Lizzie began to hope she might escape the threatened beating after all. That such a beating as alone would satisfy Mrs. Stanley would kill her now she felt sure, for she was no longer the rosy healthy girl she was when she left home. She had begun to grow thin and careworn, and though the walnut-juice dye had changed the colour of her skin so that she could no longer look white, she began to look yellow and sickly, instead of the "nut-brown maid" Mrs. Stanley had designed she should be. This was especially noticeable when this week's work was over; for the confinement in the sickening atmosphere, and the fatigue of walking continually round the close confined space within the van, told upon the girl's strength so severely, that the last night of the fair she could scarcely do her treadmill task, and when at last the door was closed, and the steam whistle screeched its final blast, the poor girl sank down upon the floor more dead than alive.

"Here now! Just have a drop o' this, Lizzie," said a voice that sounded a long way off to the girl lying half-fainting on the floor of the van. She could hear the same voice repeat the words in the tones of entreaty and command, but she had no power to rouse herself or even open her eyes. At last her head was raised, and some fiery liquid poured down her throat that nearly choked her, and then she knew it was the hateful gin she had been made to swallow.

"No, no," she gasped, pushing the glass away from her when Tottie would again have put it to her lips.

"Look here, Liz, it ain't no good holding out agin it," said the girl persuasively. "I know what this wax-work van is. It just pumps the life out of ye, and the only thing to keep you going is a little drop o' gin. Mother always gave me a drop when I was here," she added.

But Lizzie still shook her head. "I promised Mother I never would touch it," she whispered faintly.

"Yes; but you can't keep a promise like that now," said Tottie. "Mother knows you can't keep on without it, and she says you must take it."

But Lizzie still shook her head. "I couldn't," she said. "I've been a wicked girl to my poor mother, but I'll just hold on to this; because it's the last and the only thing I can do for her."

"You're a fool then," said Tottie roughly; "and you'll just have to take your chances with Mother."

At that moment the van door was pushed open again, and Mrs. Stanley thrust her head in.

"Has she took it, Tottie?" she asked.

"Yes, she's had most of it," said the girl, holding up the glass to let her mother see that there was not much left in it. In point of fact, only the first few drops had been swallowed by Lizzie, the rest having been purposely spilled on the floor of the van by Tottie. But it served the purpose she had in view, and poor Tottie had never been taught the sin of lying.

Mrs. Stanley stood for a moment looking at the heap of tumbled pink tarlatan lying motionless on the floor, and her daughter, noticing the anxious look that came into her eyes, said in an indifferent tone:

"You'll have to serve her out some other way. A whacking will about do for her now. She's caved in quicker than I did."

"Humph! She'll never be worth her weight in gold to us after all, I'm afraid," grumbled Mrs. Stanley.

"You'll have to let her take it easy if she's ever to be any good," remarked Tottie. "I thought I'd get her bed in and make her comfortable," she added, handing the glass she held to her mother.

"All right. Bring her round if you can, for she does this show business very well, and you are getting on at the fortune-telling."

Saying which Mrs. Stanley went to see after some other business that needed her attention, leaving the two girls together.

If Lizzie heard what passed, she was too weak to notice it, and only roused herself again when Tottie dragged in her sack of straw, and tried to lift her on to it.

"Don't, don't!" she gasped, for every movement was so painful that she only desired to be left alone.

"But you must get this fine frock off," said Tottie, unhooking the pink tarlatan as she spoke. "I don't want another row with you and mother; and she'll be here again presently, and not so mild as she was the last time."

Lizzie knew what she meant, and roused herself sufficiently to draw her arms out of the sleeves as Tottie pulled them. No such luxuries as nightdresses were allowed her now, although she had brought her own with her. But Tottie contrived to get a blanket to cover her, and then, having made her as snug and comfortable as she could, she made haste out to the supper party, who had already commenced their meal.

They were not going to pack up to-night, for there was no hurry for them to be on the road again; and so there would be a feast with plenty of drink, and a probable fight at the end, which did not frighten Tottie as it did Lizzie, for she had been used to such scenes all her life. She did not care much for the carousing though now, for her cough was troublesome; and she decided to go and lie down beside Lizzie, where she should be sure to be quiet for the night.

Poor Lizzie made up her mind she was going to die before the week came to an end. Indeed she was very ill, and was allowed to lie on her straw bed in the van for some days. And Tottie sat beside her most of the time, and when she was able Lizzie talked to her about what she had learned at Sunday-school, and the dear mother and father and brother she had left behind.

Tottie was amazed to hear that her companion had a comfortable home with Mrs. Spencer, as well as kind considerate parents; for how she could leave these for the miseries of a life among gypsy folks, was more than she could comprehend.

"You mean to say you could live in a tidy house, and have meals regular, and go to bed every night, and yet want to live such a life as ours!" she exclaimed.

"I didn't know what your life was like," explained Lizzie. "I thought I was to have a fortune if I came with you. And I did so want to be able to wear fine ribbons, and lace, and grand dresses that servants can't have. And it was thinking about these things so much that made me dissatisfied with my place, and I thought if I could only get away from service, I should be happy. You may well say I was foolish," added the girl, with the tears in her eyes. "I was foolish and wicked too, I can see it plain enough now."

"Would you like to go back to that place again?" asked Tottie in a whisper, and cautiously looking towards the door as she spoke. They were jolting along the road now, travelling further into Scotland in the hope of finding it more profitable to them than England had been lately.

"It's no good thinking about going back," said Lizzie. "I've got no clothes, nor no money, and we get further and further away every day. Another thing, I should be ashamed to let people know what a fool I was, and—"

"Well, I'd go back if I'd got such a mother and a good place of service to go to," said Tottie. And then she added hastily, "But don't you go yet, Liz; promise me you won't go yet!"

Lizzie looked at her in surprise. "I'm not likely to get the chance," she said.

"But promise me you won't go if you do get the chance. Not—not till I'm gone!" whispered Tottie.

Lizzie looked at her companion, and for the first time she noticed how greatly the girl had changed during the last few days. The weather had grown colder, and the air was sharp and bleak, and Tottie coughed almost incessantly.

"Are you worse?" she asked in a tone of concern as the girl again broke into a violent fit of coughing.

When she could speak the girl gasped out, "I'm going to die, Liz. I'm not afraid now, since you told me about God and Jesus Christ; 'cos he knows everything, and he knows I've never had a chance here. And there's lots like me. So he must have a school of some sort up there, where he teaches gals like me. I've give up the gin since you told me he didn't like it. But I'd like you to stop with me till he comes to fetch me, and after that, you get back to your mother as fast as you can, and tell her not to grieve, and not to scold ye, for God sent you to bring a message to a poor gal, who couldn't have learned nothing about him if you hadn't run away from her."

"But-but Tottie, you ain't so very bad, are you?" said Lizzie in a little alarm. "You've had a cough you know a long time."

"Yes, I have; and I'm just upon wore out," said the girl gaspingly.

Neither dreamed how near the end was for poor Tottie when they had this talk, but a few weeks of wandering in the bleaker air of Scotland hastened the work of destruction that had been slowly going on in the outer shell of the girl's being, and one day when it was a little colder than usual, and Tottie's cough consequently rather more violent, she broke a blood vessel.

The sight alarmed Mrs. Stanley, and she ran for a doctor; for they were just outside a large town then, where a fair was to be held the following day. Tottie was carried to the parlour van, which was only used to receive company and tell fortunes. And doubtless this removal, when the poor girl was in such a critical condition, greatly aggravated the danger, although the place was more comfortable. The doctor came, and ordered that the van should be drawn on to the nearest piece of waste ground and there remain still. The fair-ground to which they were bound was on the other side of the town, and though Mrs. Stanley protested that the invalid could and must go there, the doctor was equally firm, and said she would be guilty of murder, if she moved the van further while Tottie was so bad.

"This girl can stay with her," he said. "She is not fit to do anything at the fair. Have you got a cough too?" he asked Lizzie.

"I've got a little cold, sir," said Lizzie.

"Yes, I can see you have; so you had better stop here and nurse this girl and yourself too, and I will send you both some medicines," saying which the doctor took up his hat and went away.

Mrs. Stanley fretted and fumed, and declared she could not do without Lizzie at the wax-works; but her husband, who lingered near, reminded her that they had better shut up the wax-works for a day than get into a row, and this doctor would be sure to make a fuss if they did not do what he ordered.

So after a good deal of grumbling, the van was drawn up on the quiet spot the doctor had pointed out, and the rest of the show properties went on to their destination.

Mrs. Stanley could not afford to stay with the girls, and as the bleeding had almost ceased now, she persuaded herself that Tottie would soon be better; and so, telling them she should come back as soon as the shows were set up, she followed the rest of the party.

Tottie had lain still and white, and taken no notice of what was going on while her mother and the doctor was speaking, but as soon as the door closed and they were left to themselves, she opened her eyes and looked at Lizzie eagerly. Lizzie knelt down beside the couch, and put her ear close, but it was a minute or two before she could make out what the murmured whispers could mean.

But at last she managed to make out these words: "Write—letter—quick—money—in—my—frock," and she laid her hand on the bosom of the ragged old dress she wore, and Lizzie, feeling it, found two or three sixpences tied up in a loose piece of the lining.

"Go—quick—get—paper," gasped the invalid, when she saw the sixpences in Lizzie's hand.

But Lizzie would not leave her friend for this now. "I'll hide it in my frock," she said, transferring it to a similar receptable in her own dress; "and I'll write, never fear."

But help was nearer than either of them supposed. Just as it was getting dark, and Lizzie stood at the door watching for the doctor's boy to bring the promised medicine, she saw a weary-looking lad trudging along the road with a basket of tools on his back. A second look convinced Lizzie that it was no other than her brother Jack, and she called eagerly:

"Jack, Jack, don't you know me?"

Jack stopped and almost staggered. There was one of the vans he had been so long in search of; but he did not recognize the girl in the fluttering rags, either by voice or appearance.

Lizzie clambered down while her brother was staring at her, and ran up to him.

"Don't you know me, Jack?" she said again, laying her hand on his shoulder.

"Is it Lizzie?" gasped the lad, looking earnestly at her.

"Oh! Jack, how is mother?" was the answer, as she burst into tears and threw herself into his arms. "Will she ever forgive me, do you think, for being such a wicked girl?"

"Yes, that she will," said Jack, as soon as he had recovered a little from his astonishment; and then he looked at the solitary van. Lizzie told him then how it was she had been left behind, and that Tottie had given her some money that she might write and tell her mother where she was.

"I can't leave her, Jack," she whispered, as they walked back to the van together hand in hand. "I promised her I'd stop with her—"

"Lizzie, Lizzie," called a faint but clear voice.

And Lizzie darted into the van, and kneeled down by Tottie's side.

"I'm going, Lizzie; they've sent an angel for me, and I can't stop here no longer. You go home to your mother."

"I'm going, Tottie. My brother has just come for me," said Lizzie, taking the dying girl's hand and pointing to Jack who had followed her into the van.

She turned her eyes upon him for a moment and whispered, "You are her brother?"

"Yes," said Jack; "and I don't mean to leave her again."

"Thank God!" came faintly forth; and then there was a fluttering sigh, and poor Tottie Stanley, the real Tottie who had been shut up in a suffering body so long, went out of that travelling van up to the home God has prepared for girls who have had no chances of knowing him here.

Lizzie burst into tears when she saw what had happened, and Jack turned to the door again.

Just then the doctor's boy came up, and took two bottles of medicine out of his basket and handed them up to Jack.

But instead of taking them he said, "Stop a minute, I want to speak to you;" and then he told him what had happened, and how he had come in search of his sister and just found her. "Now I want you to show me where your master lives," he added. "Come, Lizzie," he called; "I am going to this doctor, and you must go with me."

So Lizzie shut the door of the van and came down to Jack, still crying for the friend who had just left her. The slow-witted boy was amazed, but readily consented to show the brother and sister where his master lived.

The gentleman was a little surprised to hear Tottie had gone so soon, but still more to hear the tale the brother and sister had to tell.

"You had better get away from them as quickly and quietly as possible," he said. "You see you went with them of your own accord," he added, speaking to Lizzie, "and the only thing they could be accused of was stealing this fruit knife."

Lizzie's ragged forlorn appearance touched the gentleman's heart.

"I scarcely knew her when she called me," said Jack, when he made some comment upon this.

"And you say your father is ill from anxiety about her?" said the gentleman meditatively.

Lizzie stood shrinking back, softly crying, for she was so ashamed of her folly now, so sorry for the mischief she had caused, that she hardly liked to look the gentleman in the face while he and Jack were talking about her.

"I tell you what, my lad. You write to your parents to-night, and tell them you have found your sister, but she is not quite well enough to come home at once. I will write an order for her to be admitted to the hospital to be nursed up a bit, and meanwhile my sister shall try and get a few clothes together for her to go home, and look a little more like a respectable servant than she does now."

So Lizzie was taken at once to the hospital, put into a warm bath, and then went to a clean comfortable bed, such as she had scarcely hoped to sleep in again.

A week of comfortable rest and good food did much to restore Lizzie to her old appearance outwardly, but the real Lizzie was greatly changed from the thoughtless, discontented girl who ran away from her home and her duty that summer Sunday morning. By God's providence she had been changed, and henceforth she might be "worth her weight in gold;" but in a different way from that which either she or Mrs. Stanley intended.

The doctor got a few decent clothes, and gave Jack the money for her railway fare home—he had earned enough to pay for himself—and so, at last, the brother and sister returned; and Lizzie was thankful indeed when she heard that Mrs. Spencer was willing to give her another trial, since it had been clearly proved that she had not stolen the fruit knife.

To her mistress in after years, she proved "worth her weight in gold;" for no one could be more steady and reliable, more cheerful and content, than Lizzie was after her three months' sojourn with the gypsies.

THE END.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73098 ***