She insisted on shaking hands, then came up to the carriage-door,
looking a little defiant.

"Get in at once, and we will drive home. How is it, Miss Webb, that even
with this immaculate Miss Falkner these children are for ever getting
into scrapes?"

Jill climbed into the carriage, feeling very uncomfortable under her
sister's scrutiny. She was conscious that she was very heated and untidy;
Mona's fresh daintiness made her feel her own deficiency in neatness.

"Give me an explanation of this at once, you naughty child," said Mona
peremptorily.

Jill's eyes flashed.

"I'm not naughty," she said indignantly; "I've--I've been visiting
widows."

Miss Webb scented amusement. She sat up straight, and tapped Jill's knee
with her pince-nez.

"That's very interesting," she said. "Of course, visiting widows is not
a sin. But who told you to do it? And why did you pick out a family of
tramps to work off your energy upon?"

Jill shut her mouth firmly. She keenly resented Miss Webb's tone of
ridicule, and determined to say no more.

Mona gave her a long lecture upon the dangers to which she had exposed
herself in making friends with tramps, and when they reached home she was
delivered over to her governess with a sharp injunction to punish her for
running away, and keep her in the school-room for the rest of the evening.

"So that's what I get for trying to be double good!" said poor Jill when
she was in bed that night. "I never will try it again!"

"Perhaps," said Bumps with wisdom beyond her years, "it wasn't quite
the right way to be it!"

X

A PAPER CHASE

Sam Stone did not hold out very long. Jill pursued him everywhere,
and was never tired of dilating on his selfishness and greediness,
in refusing to give up a tenth of his weekly wage.

She was beside herself with delight one day, when he came to her with
a two-shilling piece.

"That be my portion for that there scarlet bag, missy," he said. "I'll
stick to it for a bit an' give it reg'lar every week, but if-so-be
that I be wantin' of it, well I must have it. That's all I can say, an'
I hope fayther won't miss his comforts through it!"

"You must _never_ go back from it," said Jill looking up at him
solemnly. "It's a vow! You can't break a vow, it's a much more solemn
thing than a promise!"

"But I don't mean to make no vow!" said Sam.

That would not suit Jill at all. She talked away to him, and finally
threatened that she would get Miss Falkner to come and see him and explain
it to him.

"She'll make you see you ought to do it."

"I'll do my best, missy, but 'tis the prayer you say I must make, stumps
me. I've been a-looking through the chapter, an' Jacob he spoke up
very certain-like about the Lord being his God. I don't set up to be
a religious man myself, and I don't want to make no promises that I
bain't a-goin' to keep!"

Jill insisted upon getting her Bible and reading the verses through
to him.

"Jacob doesn't promise anything wonderful, Sam. He only says if God
will be good to him and take care of him, he will make Him his God,
and give his tenth to Him. Why the Lord is your God, Sam, isn't He?"

"I don't know what the words mean rightly," said Sam dubiously.

"They just mean that you must belong to God, and He will belong to
you. You do belong to Him already, Sam, you know you do!"

"I bain't so sure."

"Oh, Sam! God made you, and keeps you alive every day, and Miss Falkner
says it isn't only what God does for us, but Jesus died for us, so that
ought to make us belong to Him doubly sure!"

"Well," said Sam after long thought, "I'll come to 'Bethel' to-morrow."

So the next day saw him go through the little ceremony with great feeling
and earnestness of purpose, though the effort cost him a good deal.

"I've done it fayther," he said when he went home, "I've tooken the vow
for good and all. I thought it were a kind o' game when Miss Jill first
brought it up, but I've been readin' the Bible, an' it do seem very plain,
an'--an'--well--we do be ungrateful creatures to the good God!"

The scarlet bag grew heavy with coppers as time went on. Norah and
Rose Beecher came over to tea one day, and were persuaded to join "Our
Tenth Society!"

Jill got to calling it grandly the "O.T.S." and soon had the satisfaction
of enrolling Annie the school-room maid as one of its members.

Then came talk of summer holidays. Mona came into the school-room one
evening to consult with Miss Falkner about it.

"I suppose you must go home?" she asked. "You would not be able to take
the children to the seaside?"

"I am afraid not," said Miss Falkner. "I have a mother who lives quite
alone, and who looks for me to come to her whenever I can."

"Ah," said Mona with a little sigh. "You have something that I have not."

Then she added in a different tone--

"I don't know what to do with the children. They play such pranks,
and they're too old for nurses. Jack and Jill are quite beyond them."

Miss Falkner could offer no suggestion. Mona went on--

"Miss Webb has offered to look after them, but I want her to come abroad
with me, and she cannot do both."

"I suppose you will have to leave them here for their holidays?"

"I see the look in your eyes, Miss Falkner! You think me a selfish wretch
for letting my claims on Miss Webb come first. Perhaps you are like
Mrs. Errington, who at once saw a solution out of the difficulty. 'Take
them to some comfortable farmhouse and look after them yourself!' I
told her I should be worn out in twenty-four hours. I often wonder how
you can stand it!"

"It is my life-work," said Miss Falkner quietly. "But I am so fond of
children that they do not tire me."

"Well," said Mona giving an impatient sigh, "my life-work at present is
to amuse myself. I find it hard work sometimes. But as you won't make
it easy for me to carry off Miss Webb I suppose I must leave her behind."

And so it was settled. Miss Webb resigned herself to her fate. Mona went
to some of her numerous friends, and Miss Falkner took her departure.

The children hovered about her as she packed the day before she went,
and hindered rather than helped her.

"Just tell me what your mother and your home is like," said Jill. "I'm
going to shut my eyes and pretend I see you. Make yourself saying
'How do you do,' to her."

Miss Falkner smiled.

"Shut your eyes then. A narrow street, and a terrace of small houses with
little balconies above. A cab stops at the door, and a young woman--shall
I call her?--hurries up the narrow steps. Some one has been watching at
the door. A gentle, sweet-faced woman with a bright smile and tired body,
comes forward to greet her. Then she takes her to a little upstairs
drawing-room, which is full of sweet-smelling flowers, and a canary
bird and a big tabby cat--both the best of friends--are also waiting
to greet the home-comer. Tea is waiting. A little rosy-cheeked maid brings
the kettle in. The windows are open, but the small balcony is full of
flowers, and the scent and sight of them makes one forget the narrow,
dingy street outside. Can you see my home, Jill? Can you see me sitting
down by my mother's side, and saying, 'No more lessons, and no more
children for six weeks'?"

"Yes," said Jill with tightly closed eyes, "I can see you; but, oh,
Miss Falkner," and here she flung her arms round her governess's neck
as she was stooping to put some things in her travelling trunk, "promise
on your word and honour that you'll come back to us!"

"Indeed I hope to do so, dear."

"And don't, _don't_ like your mother better than us!"

Miss Falkner could not help laughing. When the very thought of her
mother brought a light to her eye and a lump in her throat; when the
anticipation of her mother's kiss and greeting was now the first waking
thought, how could she explain to a motherless child the strong tie
between an only daughter and her mother!

"You must be a good child, Jill, whilst I am away. Let me find you when
I come back steadily going forward towards the Golden City. God will
help you, darling."

Jill nodded soberly.

"And we'll go on filling our bag. And perhaps the mission church will
be built by the time you come back."

Miss Falkner did not damp her hopes. She parted with her little pupils
with sincere regret. Bumps sobbed audibly when she wished her good-bye,
and Jill crept up to her room to have her weep out in secret. Jack
appeared stolidly unconcerned, but when the carriage had taken Miss
Falkner away, he went straight to the stables, a forbidden resort.

"Here, Stokes," he called out to one of the grooms, "I've come out
here because it's so beastly dull, and I don't care who finds me here;
for there isn't a person left in the house that I care about at all!"

For the first few days the children missed their governess very much,
then the delights of the holidays took full possession of them. Miss
Webb was valiantly trying to do her duty. She took them for drives and
for picnics in the woods. She went into the nearest town and bought
them outdoor games and story-books; and if she saw them safely to bed
at the end of the day without any serious mishap having taken place,
she heaved a sigh of relief and said--

"One more day got through safely!"

Jack was her greatest trial. Jill was really trying to be good, but Jack's
spirits were hard to restrain, and whatever he did, and wherever he went,
Bumps was sure to follow.

One afternoon after their early dinner, Miss Webb retired to her room
with a headache. It was a hot, sultry day in August. She left her charges
playing a game of cricket on their lawn, and hoped they would stay there
till tea-time.

Jill was the first one to give up cricket.

"I'm going to write a letter to Miss Falkner," she said. "You go on
playing without me."

"Bumps can't bowl," complained Jack; "she throws the ball up into the
sky as if she's aiming at the sun."

"I'll bat," suggested Bumps cheerfully.

"Yes, and I'll put you out, first bowl. There you are, you little stupid!"

Bumps stared blankly at her wicket, then at Jack.

"What shall we do next?" she inquired.

"We'll have a paper chase," suggested Jack, who was never at a loss.

"And where shall we get the paper?" asked Bumps in great glee at the
prospect.

"Oh, come on into the house. We'll find it somewhere."

Jack was not particular where he got his paper. Miss Webb's waste-paper
basket was first seized, then _The Times_ of the day before and sundry
magazines in the drawing-room, then the library was invaded and various
papers and circulars abstracted from the writing-table.

"I shall be hare, of course," said Jack as he sat down on the floor
with Bumps, and rapidly began to tear his various papers to pieces.
"You must give me ten minutes' start, Bumps, by the clock, and then you
must follow the paper, and never stop till you catch me up."

"You won't go twenty miles away?" said Bumps very anxiously.

"Of course I won't! And get Jill to come with you. It will be much
greater fun if she comes."

Tearing the papers up kept them quiet for a good half-hour, and then
Jack started, first taking off his jacket, and making Bumps promise on
her honour not to look which way he went.

She waited her ten minutes and then went to Jill.

"Jill, do come and be the other hound. Jack has gone, and oh! he has gone
through the thtable, I thee the paper!"

Bumps was too excited to wait. Jill was lying flat on the grass and
hardly turned her head. She murmured, "It's too hot," and went on with
her writing.

The afternoon wore on. Miss Webb was roused by the tea-bell and went
down-stairs congratulating herself upon the quiet behaviour of the
children. She found Jill deep in a storybook.

"Where are the others?" she asked.

"Paper-chasing," said Jill. "Aren't they stupid, this hot afternoon?"

"But I hope they have not gone far?"

"I don't know. The last time I did it, I was the hare, and I climbed a
wall, and fell through a greenhouse the other side, and I was ill for
three weeks; the gardener said I might have killed myself."

This was hardly comforting. Miss Webb looked anxiously out of the window.

"If they do not come soon, we must go and look for them. I hope they
have not gone outside the grounds!"

"Oh, they mayn't be back till bed-time," said Jill.

"You ought not to have let Bumps go," said Miss Webb sharply. "She is far
too small. You ought to have looked after her better!"

Jill did not appear moved in the slightest. She ate her tea and wondered
at Miss Webb's concern; but as time went on, and there was no sign of
the hare or hound, she began to share Miss Webb's anxiety.

"I'll go and look for them."

Out she ran, and Annie was made to accompany her. They followed the
paper down the drive out into the road and across two fields, then it
went through a farm-yard up into a loft, down again, and out at a small
back gate. The farmer's wife came out and said she had seen both the
children, for Bumps had tumbled down in the yard and grazed her knees.

"An' I took her in, an' gave her a piece of plaster, but she were dead
set on following the young gentleman."

After going up the lane and going through another field, Annie said she
could go no further.

"'Tis getting dark, and they'll most like be home by this time. Come
back, Miss Jill. Master Jack ought to be ashamed of himself leading us
this chase!"

So they turned back, but when they came in they found that Miss Webb had
ordered the gardeners and grooms all out, for they had not returned.

Jill's bed-time came. It grew quite dark, and then at last voices were
heard in the hall and Miss Webb rushed out. It was Bumps in the arms
of a big farmer.

"I found her in a ditch," he said; "my mare shied as I were-a-drivin'
home, and I seed somethin' white by the roadside, and then I seed it
were a child. She have hurt her foot, poor little 'un. She must have
failed a-tryin' to get over a fence above!"

"Is she dead?" cried Jill, pressing forward, for Bumps hung a limp and
apparently lifeless bundle over the farmer's arm.

"Bless 'ee, no! Her be faint an' exhausted, but put her to bed an'
she'll be all right in the mornin'. Leastwise if her foot be not injured!"

So poor Bumps was put to bed, and her little swollen foot bathed and
bandaged, and after a good deal of petting and feeding, she was able
to look up and speak.

"It wath my short legs," she said sadly, and somehow or other this old
excuse of hers, which was always brought forward when she had failed
to do what the others did, brought the tears as well as a smile to Miss
Webb's face. Not a word of blame or reproach was uttered. But when she
had dropped into a sound sleep, Miss Webb left her, and her thoughts
were now centred on the missing Jack.

The gardeners and grooms failed to trace him, and returned to the house
between ten and eleven that night without having found any sign of
him. Miss Webb passed a sleepless night, and early in the morning the
search was continued.

But Jill was the first in the field. She got up at six o'clock, and
with determination in her small face, she trotted off following the
paper track.

Over the same ground as the day before she went, but now in the sunshine
it was a different matter, and though in some places the paper had
disappeared, her sharp eyes tracked it out again, and she went on with
renewed vigour.

At last she came to a standstill. The paper was to be seen close to a
private plantation. And then it went no further. Jill climbed a low
fence in spite of a board with "Trespassers will be prosecuted," and
looked in every direction for signs of more paper. But none did she find.

"I'll go through the plantation," she said to herself, "and see where it
leads, for I believe that Jack must have come to an end of his paper."

She followed a little beaten track; and presently with joy saw lying
in a bush a white cotton pillow-case. It had been missing from Jack's
bed the night before and was the bag he carried his paper in. Jill took
it up and found it--as she expected--empty. Then she pressed forward,
and at last came to the other end of the plantation. A deep and rather
wide stream ran between it and a green field, in which there were several
horses grazing. She looked down at the stream, then taking off her shoes
and stockings she boldly splashed across. She was in the act of putting
her stockings on again, when a gruff voice startled her.

"Now here's another of 'em!"

Looking up she encountered the gaze of a stout, red-faced old gentleman.

"Have you seen Jack?" she asked eagerly.

He shook his fist at her.

"Didn't you see my board?" he shouted. "How dare you come on in the
face of it, and disturb my birds! If it isn't poachers, it's children
now-a-days. I hate 'em both!"

"I'm very sorry," said Jill; "but please where is Jack. He has been away
all night, and we can't find him."

"If that impudent boy I caught and thrashed yesterday was Jack, you
had better follow him, and if you aren't quick about it you'll get what
he got!"

He brandished his stick so fiercely, that Jill fled in terror across the
field. Out of a white gate and down a lane she ran, and never stopped
till she reached a small cottage. Here she pulled up and breathlessly
asked a woman if she had seen her brother.

"Were he a small boy with flannel shirt and trousers, and a straw
hat? Then yestere'en 'bout seven o'clock, he came runnin' down the road
an' Mike the tinker were in front with his old cart. I seed the boy speak
to 'im, and then up he climbed, and away they drove, and I'm afeered
that Mike was the worse for drink."

"Where does Mike live?" asked Jill with a sinking heart.

"About four mile from here, but he were a-goin' on his rounds, and his
next stopping-place was at Thornton."

Thornton was the nearest town. Jill knew it well, but it was beyond her
walking powers.

"I can't think why he hasn't come home," she said half crying. "I don't
know what to do."

"Here's some un comin'," said the woman shading her eyes with her
hand. "'Tis a man on a hoss."

Jill looked down the road, and when the rider drew near, she saw to her
intense delight that it was Sir Henry Talbot.

He stopped his horse directly he saw her.

"What!" he said; "another of you straying. Are you still looking for
widows?"

"Oh no," Jill cried; "I'm looking for Jack. He is lost, and I've come
out to find him, and a drunk tinker has driven him away!"

Sir Henry nodded gravely.

"I know all about it," he said; "I've sent Jack home in my carriage."

Jill's face brightened at once.

"Oh, I am so glad; why didn't he come home?"

"He couldn't very well. I was driving home last night from a dinner party
between twelve and one, and I came upon the tinker and Jack under the
cart and horse by the old bridge. It's a wonder they hadn't fallen into
the river. The tinker had his ribs broken, and Jack a nasty cut on
the head, but my housekeeper plastered him up, and he's quite himself
this morning. What scamps you are! How are you going to get home? I think
you had better come up on my horse. He'll carry us both."

So in a very short time Jill returned triumphantly to the house riding
in front of Sir Henry.

Miss Webb saw them from a window and hurried out.

"How can I thank you, Sir Henry? He has arrived safe and sound. I feel
I shall be a white-haired old lady by the time Mona comes back. And
now you've brought Jill home. I do feel so grateful."

"But I haven't been lost," said Jill in an aggrieved tone.

And then she ran indoors to find Jack.

XI

A DONKEY RIDE

Both Jack and Bumps were on the sick-list for the next few days. Bumps
had sprained her foot, and Jack's cut on his head was a deep and painful
one.

When he recovered, he told his adventures to his sisters with much relish;
but for once Jill took Bumps' part, and told Jack he had treated her
very badly.

"You ought to have stopped when your paper came to an end, and come
back to her. How could she follow you, especially when you drove in a
cart? It wasn't fair."

"It was that old brute's fault. He nearly broke his stick over my
shoulders. I'll pay him back when I get a chance. I've got the marks
now. I can feel them. I couldn't walk home, I was so hurt. So I told
Mike to drive me into Thornton, and then I was going to our butcher,
I knew he would take me home."

"That was rather clever of you," admitted Jill, "but did you forget all
about Bumps?"

"Oh, I knew she would never come on so far. If you'd been with her it
would have been all right. And I thought you were. I told her to bring
you; so it was really all your fault."

This was turning the tables upon Jill.

"I suppose," she said slowly, "I ought to have looked after her."

But Bumps breathlessly protested:

"I wath all right. I runned ever so fatht. And I thaw the paper, and
never wath frightened of the cowth, and I would have catched him, Jill,
I really would, only I couldn't get over the palings, and my legs thtuck
where they oughtn't to, and then I tumbled on my head and--and----"

Bumps came to a stop; then she added piteously, "I'll do better next time,
Jack. I really will."

And Jack replied with a patronising air. "Oh yes, you'll do, when you
grow bigger."

"Mona is coming back, children," said Miss Webb one morning as she opened
her letters at the breakfast-table. "She does not say why she is coming
home so much sooner than she intended, but I suppose she will tell us.
She will be here this afternoon."

The children were delighted. Mona was a constant source of interest and
admiration to them. When she was in the house, there was a stir and
bustle; the very servants seemed to go asleep in her absence.

Miss Webb had tea out upon the lawn that afternoon, and when Mona arrived,
she seemed struck with the children's orderly dress and behaviour, and
the quiet peacefulness of the old garden.

"There is no place like home after all," she said as she sat in a low
wicker-chair with Bumps on her lap.

Miss Webb looked at her with keen eyes.

"You are tired and worried about something," she said. "Didn't you enjoy
your visit?"

"Very much till yesterday," and Mona gave a little shiver. Then she bent
her lips, and touched Bumps' golden head with them caressingly.

"I had a full programme," she said with a little laugh. "The Tambourne
Races to-day, the Regatta to-morrow, and Lady Donald's ball next Monday,
followed by her village theatricals and concert. There was an awfully
nice girl staying with us. Maud Crichton was her name. She used to come
into my room every night to have a chat, and I was going to bring her
back here to stay with me. She was rather seedy a few days ago, and we
thought it a heavy cold. Only last night she was sitting up with me,
and though her head was very bad, we were making wonderful plans. This
morning she was covered with a thick rash. I heard she had almost been
light-headed in the night. The doctor came and pronounced it scarlet
fever. Of course there was a general stampede. I'm terrified lest she
should have infected me. What do you think, Miss Webb?"

Miss Webb looked grave, then quietly took Bumps off Mona's lap and sent
her indoors, telling the others to follow.

"You don't think of the children," she said a little reproachfully.

"The children? Good gracious! You're taking it for granted I am going
to get it! Why, Miss Webb, it drives me frantic to think I may! What
can I do? Shall I send for a doctor for some preventive?"

Miss Webb saw the girl was thoroughly frightened and unstrung, so she
spoke very quietly.

"You are not a weak, hysterical girl, Mona. Do for pity's sake control
yourself. It is not very likely you will take it; but if you did, there
are many things worse than scarlet fever. What makes you so frightened?"

"Oh," said Mona, covering her face with her hands, "I might die. It
is so awful to think about it. And wasn't it strange, Miss Webb, we
had a sermon last Sunday with the gruesome text: 'Prepare to meet thy
God.' Now don't let us talk any more about it. Give me another cup of
tea. I call it ridiculous to send the children away."

Mona pulled herself together with an effort. After that one revelation
of her frightened soul, she did not touch upon the subject again, but
Miss Webb watched her anxiously, and would not let the children be much
with her. A week afterwards, Mona was taken ill with the disease she
so much dreaded. Her extreme nervousness about herself did not help
her. Miss Webb promptly telegraphed to Miss Falkner--"Scarlet fever in
house. Can you take children to seaside?"

And though Miss Falkner had only had a month's holiday, instead of six
weeks, she replied at once--

"Certainly, will return to-morrow."

"It's rather exciting!" said Jack to Jill as they stood at the school-room
window watching for the arrival of their governess. "I don't want Mona
to be ill, but I'm jolly glad we're going to the seaside."

"I'm glad Miss Falkner is coming with us, but I rather think I'd like to
have scarlet fever. It must be so nice to have the doctor and a nurse,
and jellies and beef-tea, and everybody fussing over you."

The arrival of the carriage stopped further discussion, and in another
moment all three children were flinging themselves upon their governess,
nearly choking her with their eager embraces.

They went the next day to a small seaside place about three miles from
Chilton Common. There was a nice sandy beach, a row of lodging-houses,
a stone pier and fishing-wharf; and the children were perfectly content
with their lot. Annie came with them, and their landlady knew them well,
for it was not the first time they had been there.

"Miss Falkner, can't we go and see Chilton Common one day?" asked Jill,
soon after they had arrived.

"Why, you funny child!" said Miss Falkner, smiling. "The only reason
you liked to go to Chilton Common was because you could see the sea
in the distance; and now you are actually at the sea, you want to go to
the Common."

"Ah!" said Jill, "but I want to find the place where our mission-room is
going to be."

"I forgot that," admitted Miss Falkner. "But it is too far for you to
walk, Jill. We must wait till we get home, I think, and then we can
drive there."

So Jill tried to be patient, and she was very fond of mounting a small
hill close to the town where she could get a fine view of the Common,
and one day Miss Falkner found her there, shaking her red bag wildly in
the air at it.

"There!" she was saying, "do you see the place you are going to build
upon! The fatter you get, the better for Chilton Common!"

They heard from Miss Webb, but her letters always smelt of carbolic, and
Miss Falkner burnt them directly she had read them. Mona was very ill,
and one morning Miss Falkner got a letter that rather startled her. It
was as usual from Miss Webb.

    "DEAR MISS FALKNER,

    "I remember you told me that you were not afraid of scarlet fever,
    having had it a few years ago. Would you be afraid of coming
    to Mona? She is crying out for you incessantly day and night,
    and I do not think it is mere delirium. She says you would help her
    to get well, and the poor girl seems in terror lest she should
    not do so. Dr. Forbes says if her mind could be eased there
    would be more chance of her recovery. Leave the children with
    Annie. I am sure they will be good, when they know that Mona needs
    you. And nothing seems to matter in comparison with Mona's life.
    If you feel you can come, come at once."

Miss Falkner went straight to her room, and put up a few things in a
portmanteau. She called Jill to her, and told her about the letter.

"I am going to trust you, Jill, to keep the others out of mischief,
and ask God, dear, to make your sister better, if it is His will."

Jill looked rather blank at the news.

"You are always leaving us now," she said; "and Jack won't do what I tell
him. He never would. Mona has got Miss Webb, she doesn't want you too!"

This was very much Annie's opinion.

"Miss Baron doesn't ever think of anybody but herself," she confided
to Mrs. Pratt, the landlady. "If she took a fancy to see one of the
children, she'd never think of the risk to them, but she'd insist upon
them coming to her. She's a nice young lady to speak to, but she's always
had her own way, and poor Miss Falkner must go to help nurse her now!"

When Miss Falkner came softly into the sick-room, she was shocked at
the change in Mona.

She lay with crimson cheeks and parched, dry lips upon her pillows,
restlessly turning her head to and fro; her beautiful hair had all been
cut off; her eyes were dull and vacant; her voice husky and indistinct.

A gleam of recognition lit up her face as Miss Falkner stooped over her
and spoke to her.

"Is it Miss Falkner? You are good, you know how to pray. I am not ready
to die. Pray for me. It is cruel to take my life so soon, and he will
keep preaching, 'Prepare to meet thy God.' Do stop him. Of course it
is Cecil Arnold; I laughed at him, but I knew I was wrong, and he was
right. I can't prepare. I don't know how to. And why should I give up a
tenth of my money?--even little Jill is laughing at me--she and Cecil
Arnold putting their heads together, and he won't look at me, he doesn't
care for me any more. Oh, if only you will help me!"

This and much more in the same strain she poured forth.

Miss Falkner soothed her for the time, and the next day when she was
lying weak and exhausted, but fully conscious, she spoke again.

"Do you think I shall get over this, Miss Falkner!"

"I think--I hope you will," said Miss Falkner brightly. "I am praying
that you may."

"I know I have lived only for pleasure, but if, oh, if God spares my
life, I will give Him some of my money. It has worried me so. Even the
children are giving now more than I do."

"There is something God wants more than your money," said Miss Falkner
gently. "It is of more value to Him than that."

"What is it? Oh, if I get well I will give it. Life is everything to me."

"It is your soul."

The words were spoken in a soft whisper, and there was silence in the
room for some time after that.

At last Mona put her wasted hand out.

"I will give it to Him, if He spares my life."

"Jack, Mona is going to get well. Miss Webb has written to tell us so. Oh,
do let us do something jolly to-day."

"We'll have a donkey ride. There's a man just come along the road with
four of them. Come on!"

But, alas! When purses were produced, only eightpence could be collected,
and the donkey man shook his head.

"I wish," said Jack discontentedly, "that we needn't always be giving
to the Bag."

Jill got hot and indignant at once.

"You greedy, wicked boy, after your vow too. Remember Ananias and
Sapphira!"

"But they took the money; I haven't."

"No, but you're almost wishing to!"

"I'm not," said Jack sullenly.

"What's the matter, my boy?" asked an old lady, who was sitting on
a sheltered seat on the beach, and who had overheard a part of this
conversation.

"We want a donkey ride," said Jack bluntly; "and we haven't got enough
money."

The old lady quietly drew out a rusty black bag from her pocket.

"I used to like donkey rides when I was a little girl," she said,
"so I'll treat you to one. Where would you like to go?"

The children could hardly believe their ears. But Jill's one thought
came uppermost at once.

"To Chilton Common," she said. "Oh! we should love to go there."

The old lady spoke to the man.

"Where is your nurse?" she said. "Will she like you to go so far?"

"Oh, Annie won't mind. We always play out here till dinner-time."

So in a few minutes, four donkeys were going at a steady trot towards
Chilton Common; the man himself riding on one of them. It seemed a long
way to the children, but Jill enlivened the way by telling the man about
their tenth bag, and the room that they hoped to build on the Common.

"You might help if you like," she suggested. "You could give a tenth out
of what the lady is going to give you this morning. It's going to be
a tenth room or church, because it's going to be built out of our tenths."

"Don't believe in parsons or churches," said the man emphatically.

"Do you mean you don't like them?" questioned Jill. "Don't you go to
church yourself?"

"Never been inside a church since I were a Sunday-school brat."

"Oh! that sounds dreadful!" said Jill, eyeing him with severity.

"Fact!" said the donkey man, giving Jill's donkey a vicious whack with
his stick, and making her start off at a gallop. But Jill could stick
to her donkey and to her point at the same time.

"Well, if you don't want to go to church, other people do; and they
can't do it on Chilton Common. You wait till we get there, and then
you will see what it is like! And I'm sure you would like to give God
some of your money, wouldn't you? You must get a lot of money by your
donkeys. _Everybody_ likes to ride on donkeys!"

"I'm a poor man, an' has a hard job to get my vittles," was the
response. "Let rich folk build churches and such like. Let 'em throw
away their money on such foolery, but a hard-workin' man has better to
do with his'n."

"But," argued Jill, who from her long discussion with Sam was quite
prepared for these sentiments, "you aren't as poor as we are. If no
one gives me a present I get threepence a week, but it doesn't matter
how little you have, the first ten pennies you get, you put one aside
for God. Now do, won't you? You really ought to, for God gives you your
donkeys and your money. Supposing if your donkeys broke their legs,
or you broke yours! Then you wouldn't be able to get any money. And if
God takes care of you and your donkeys every day, I expect He's very
disappointed that you don't give Him a little money!"

This and much more Jill eagerly poured forth, and at last her driver
took refuge in silent chuckles and shakes of his head. He would not
be drawn out any more. They arrived in due time on the Common. It was
a lovely day, and a few women came out on their doorsteps to watch the
little cavalcade.

The children dismounted, and began earnestly disputing about the best
site for the mission-room. Jill took into her confidence one of the
women who seemed greatly interested.

"You see," she said, "Mr. Errington and us are going to build a church
here when we can get enough money. Where would you like it put?"

"We bain't church-goers," said the woman laughing.

"No, but you will be when you get a church."

"Now," said the donkey man, getting bolder when he saw he would be
supported by a majority; "will 'ee tell us, little miss, what good a
church does 'ee?"

He raised his voice, and several lads and women drew near to listen.

Jill climbed back on her donkey. She did not like the look of the rough
boys, but she bravely held her ground.

"It's a place where you can hear about Jesus," she said reverently,
"and where you can ask Him what you want. Miss Falkner says He is always
there to meet you."

"And what good do He do?" asked a lad with a mocking laugh.

"He helps you to set out, and keep on going to the Golden City,"
said Jill, looking at him with shocked disapproval. "You wait till
you get your church, and Mr. Errington comes out to tell you all about
it. You'll wish when you hear about it, that you'd been told _hundreds_
of years ago!"

There was loud laughter, but one of the women came forward and looked
at Jill somewhat wistfully.

"Your Golden City reminds me of a hymn I used to sing in Sunday school,"
she said. "It began, 'Jeroos'lem the golden'!"

"Yes, I know it," said Jill, nodding; "and when you get your church I'll
ask Mr. Errington to let you have that hymn every Sunday if you like."

"Shall we have hymn singin'?" questioned a boy, with a white face and
dark shock of hair. "Who'll do the moosic?"

"Mr. Errington will do it _all_," said Jill with proud emphasis. "And when
the church is open, I shall come over, and Jack, and Bumps, and Miss
Falkner. And we'll be in our Sunday clothes, and you will be in yours,
and the church will be _crammed_! And there'll be lots of music and
singing, and we shall all enjoy it awfully! And after it's over"--here
her imagination ran away with her--"we'll all shake hands, and say how
glad we are, and then we'll have flags waving and bells ringing, and a
lovely tea which we'll sit down to all together, with cakes and buns,
and tea in urns, like a schoolfeast!"

Jack, who had been listening in silence, broke in now with enthusiasm.

"And then we'll have three cheers for the King, and three cheers for
Mr. Errington, and three cheers for our red bag that got the money,
and we'll finish up with a bonfire and fireworks!"

Jill pulled out her red bag which she had stuffed into her pocket,
and wildly waved it in the air.

"Hurray for Chilton Common Church!" she cried, and the children and rough
lads round joined in her cheer with a hearty good-will.

"Now," she said, relapsing from enthusiasm to business, "where would
you like us to build it?"

There was a little silence. Some of the women went indoors. The group
thinned. Jack looked round wisely.

"I think we'll let Mr. Errington choose the place," he said. "I'm sure
it's time to go back."

"Well," said Jill, turning to the blacksmith, who had left his forge and
had come out to know what the cheers were about, "I've told you what
is going to happen, and if you like to give a tenth of your money and
give it to God, I will take it and put it in my red bag and give it to
Mr. Errington."

The blacksmith put his hand in his pocket and brought out sixpence.

"There be my mite towards it," he said. "I always did say a parson up
here would be the thing!"

Jill thanked him profusely, dropped the sixpence in her bag, and the
children rode away, followed for a short distance by a screaming crowd
of small boys and girls.

[Illustration: "THERE'S MY MITE TOWARDS IT."]

XII

THE BISHOP AND THE GEESE

When they reached the beach again the old lady was just in the act of
departing for her lunch. She cheerfully paid the donkey man, but Jill
was watching the transaction anxiously, and pursued the man to the end
of the beach, where she held an earnest conversation with him.

"Jill is trying to make him give up his tenth," said Jack confidentially
to the old lady. "I don't think she'll do it."

"What do you mean, child?"

Explanation followed, and with Bumps' eager and breathless interruptions,
the old lady got quite mystified.

"Why do you keep talking about a tenth?" she said.

"Because it's a tenth that God expects from everybody," said Jack. "I
suppose you give yours to somebody to look after, don't you?"

"I don't give a tenth of my money away at all," said the lady snappishly.
"That is an old Jewish law. Thank goodness, we are not Jews, but
Christians."

"But Miss Falkner told us it wasn't only meant for Jews," argued Jack.
"She says everybody who gets money from God ought to give back some to
Him."

"Yeth," nodded Bumps; "and becauth we can't send it up to heaven, Miss
Falkner thaid we could thpend it on good things for God down on the
earth, and we would be very happy if you gave us your money for our bag,
wouldn't we, Jack?"

Jack was not a good beggar. He got hot and red.

"We don't ask people for money," he said; "but if they like to give us
their tenth we should be pleased."

"Jill asks," said Bumps. "She asks everybody!"

"Oh, dear!" said the old lady, "here she comes running back! I must
go. There, my boy, there's a coin for your bag!"

She put a sovereign into Jack's hand.

"Is it your tenth?" he asked wonderingly; "what a lot of money you must
have! Thank you very much!"

But the old lady was gone, and strangely enough the children never saw
her again.

"Have you got any money from the donkey man?" asked Jack.

"Yes," said Jill in quiet triumph. "He gave me sixpence. I don't know
whether it was quite a tenth, but he seemed very pleased to do it--at
least he got pleased. He said he had never done such a good thing in his
life, and he hoped that it would be remembered. I told him God wouldn't
forget it, for He can't forget anything. And he told me he only lives
a mile from Chilton Common, and when the church is built I'm to let him
know, and he will come and see it. He's a nice man!"

Then Jack opened his hand, and let her see what he had got. Jill screamed
in ecstacy; the red bag was produced, and when both coins were safely
deposited, they ran indoors to their dinner, feeling they had had an
eventful morning.

The days passed slowly. There were days when everything went wrong,
when Jill, as well as Jack and Bumps, was seized with the spirit of
mischief and naughtiness. She was very repentant when the day was over,
but Annie did not understand her moods, and was not so long-suffering
as Miss Falkner.

"It's no good leading me such a life all day, and then thinking you
make it all right by saying you're sorry," she said with great severity.
"You're all talk, Miss Jill! pretending to be so good with your bag of
money, and making Miss Bumps as wicked as yourself when you choose! I've
no belief in them that talks good, and acts wicked!"

Jill's passionate temper was aroused at once.

"I don't pretend, and I don't talk good! And I hate you, Annie! It's
you that make us wicked! Miss Falkner never does! I'll run away, and
go straight home, and catch the scarlet fever! I won't stay with you!"

Annie laughed scornfully.

"Words again! You want a piece clipped out of your saucy tongue, Miss
Jill!"

Jill was sitting up in bed. With all her strength she flung her pillow
in Annie's face.

Annie caught it, and marched out of the room with it.

"You naughty, impudent child! I shall take it right away to punish
you. You can sleep without it to-night!"

Jill buried her burning cheeks in her bolster, and began to cry.

Bumps sat up and ruefully regarded her.

"Never mind, Jill. Annie is horrid. Oh, pleath don't cry!"

"It's no good," sobbed poor Jill. "Annie doesn't mean me to finish off
being wicked. She tries to make me go on for ever. Nobody understands but
Miss Falkner. It's no use to try to be good again. I shall have to go
on being in disgrace. I've gone miles away from my path to the Golden
City to-day, and just when I'm trying to find my way back again, Annie
pushes me away. I shall give it up altogether. I shall throw my red bag
in the sea to-morrow, and shall give no more tenths to God. I shall be
as wicked as I possibly can. I'm meant to be wicked!"

"Oh, dear!" sighed Bumps, in despair. "You do want Miss Falkner, Jill."

"Of course I do," said Jill, angrily. "How can I be good without her?"

"I wonder," said Bumps, "if God would do instead!"

There was silence. Bumps sometimes--baby though she was--had the rare
faculty of hitting the nail straight on the head.

Jill stopped her weeping and began to think.

"I think," she said, after a few minutes' silence, "I'll just tell God
all about it. I'd like to tell Him how nasty Annie is!"

Better thoughts soon stole into her angry little heart.

"There's one thing," she said presently, startling Bumps out of her
first sleep; "God knows the proper truth about me. He knows I am sorry
that I was tiresome to-day! Annie doesn't believe me, but He will. And
He knows I don't pretend to be good!"

"Yeth," assented Bumps, drowsily; "He knowth it!"

Jill dropped asleep comforted.

The long time was over at last. Mona recovered and went away for change
of air; the house was cleaned and re-papered, and one day Miss Falkner
arrived to take them home.

"We almost like lessons now," said Jack. "We've had such long holidays."

But when lessons began the children found them irksome. They had become
thoroughly unsettled, and accustomed to careless, unpunctual ways. Miss
Falkner's regular routine fretted and chafed them. She found she needed
all her patience to bring them and keep them under her control.

"I think," Jill said to Jack, one day, and her face was thoughtful as
she spoke, "that no one can be properly good till they are twenty. I
wonder how old Miss Falkner is."

"She's just as old as Mona," said Jack. "I heard Mona tell Miss Webb so."

"How funny! But she's not a bit like Mona."

"No. Miss Webb said to Mona when she told her, 'You are a child beside
her, Mona.' Now, what did she mean by that?"

Jill pondered.

"Miss Falkner looks older. And I expect being good makes you old. Miss
Falkner is _very_ good. I'm sure when I try to be very good, and make
you and Bumps good too, I feel--I feel a hundred years old!"

"I don't think children are meant to be _very_ good," said Jack. "People
always talk of us as if we're wicked. P'raps we ought to be good on
Sundays."

"If we're walking to the Golden City, we ought to be good every day,"
said Jill decidedly.

Jack shook his curly head.

"I've thought of a lovely game I'm going to make Bumps play at."

"What?" asked Jill in an eager tone.

"Why you know the story that comes in our reading-books about the geese
who saved Rome by cackling when the enemy was creeping up. I'm going
to be the enemy, and Bumps and you must be asleep."

"But where?" asked Jill. "It was on the top of a high hill."

"Yes," nodded Jack; "but I've thought it out. There's the church tower.
We'll do it to-morrow afternoon, and we'll take the geese up first."

"That will be splendid," said Jill; "only how will you do it? Remember
the swans! I think if we can get hold of their food, and hold it out
to them, they'll follow us, but how will you climb up to the tower?"

"Tom Sanders has done it. He told me he did, and I'm longing to
try. You climb the yew tree first, and then get on to the ivy. Then
you get in at the belfry window. He got out again and went up by the
lightning-conductor, but I thought the geese would see me climbing in
at the window and then they'll cackle--and of course I shan't be able
to come on any further."

"But supposing they don't cackle?"

"Well, that's the game--to see if they do! If they don't, I shall know
Roman history tells lies. Because, of course, these geese are just the
same as those were."

"These are English geese!" Jill said doubtfully.

Jack was undaunted. He was a true little Briton.

"Then they must be better than Roman geese, and they'll cackle twice as
loud, and be double as fierce!"

So the next afternoon when lessons were over, instead of playing in the
garden, the three children stole quietly off to the farmyard.

The prospect was so exciting that even Jill had no qualms of
conscience. Jack had persuaded one of the farm lads who looked after
the geese to save him a dish of their food. Armed with a big dish he
boldly went up to the biggest gander, who greedily put his head into it
at once. It was the signal for all the others to follow suit. Then Jack,
holding the dish, ran out of the farmyard; and to the children's delight,
away strode the flock of geese after him, stretching out their necks and
shrieking in protest. Jill and Bumps followed behind with switches to
drive them along. Unfortunately, the fowls joined the chase, and two
small black pigs escaped out of the yard and with squeals of delight
raced into the flower-garden. Out into the lane the little procession
went, and the geese behaved very well. Occasionally one or two would
dive into a ditch after frogs, which delayed progress, but with Jill
and Bumps chasing them behind, and Jack enticing them in front, they at
last reached the church-yard, which was not very far away. The door of
the tower was found open, and the geese were with a little difficulty
driven in. But when Jill turned and shut the door a pandemonium
ensued. The frightened birds screamed, and beat their wings against
each other. As to making them mount the spiral stone steps, it seemed
an impossibility. When Jack caught hold of the gander and tried to
hoist him up, he turned and pecked at his hand so viciously that it
began to bleed. Bumps got frightened, and crept into an empty oak chest.
Jill coaxed and beat the birds by turns, and geese and children shrieked
at the top of their voices, till the old tower echoed and re-echoed
with the noise.

But Jack and Jill never gave up any cherished plan very easily.

By perseverance, and with much toil and persuasion, they got two young
geese to the top. Their wings were strong and they flew most of the
way. With these two birds they were forced to be content. Poor Bumps
was forgotten, and the gander and his tribe were so furious at being
entrapped in such a manner, that they shrieked and fought like furies.
Bumps felt if she showed herself amongst them she would literally be
torn to pieces, so she lay still in her chest, her little heart panting
and throbbing with fright.

Presently she heard voices in the church, and in a few minutes the belfry
door was flung open.

Mr. Errington had been entertaining his bishop that day, and had brought
him and a party of ladies to look at a beautiful old screen in the
church. Their consternation and amazement was considerable when the
flock of angry geese confronted them. The ladies beat a hasty retreat
behind the yew tree, and the bishop spoke sternly to the vicar, though
there was a twinkle in his eye.

"Is this usual, Errington? Is the belfry your poultry-yard?"

And poor Mr. Errington was so utterly astonished that he could not utter
a sound.

Away waddled the geese down the church-yard path, and then Bumps lifted
up her voice, and her little body too, thereby causing a second alarm.

"Pleath it's only me," she explained, climbing out of her retreat. "The
geeth were so angry, I wath quite frightened!"

"Are you a little goose girl?" asked the bishop, bending over her,
and putting his hand under her chin.

"No," said Bumps, feeling distinctly aggrieved; "I'm not a gooth at all.
It's a game, only the thtupid geeth won't play properly!"

"I am afraid my lord," said Mr. Errington, recovering his presence of
mind, "that some young people have been making free of this belfry
without my knowledge."

Then turning to Bumps he said, "Where are your brother and sister? I
fancy they are the culprits."

"They're upstairs," said Bumps, tears filling her blue eyes, which she
vainly struggled to keep back. "They're playing the game without me. They
always does when I get left behind. The geeth wouldn't go up-stairs,
but Jack and Jill made two of them go."

"And what game are you playing?" asked the bishop gently.

"It's something about Rome and geeth that have to cackle, and an
enemy. Jack is the enemy; he is climbing up outthide, and the top is
Rome, and the geeth have to wake Jill and me up. But I've never been
athleep, and it's all no good!"

Tears dropped on her white pinafore.

The bishop looked more amused than angry. He turned to Mr. Errington--

"They say that some of our churches lead to Rome, Errington, but these
youngsters have been early in discovering it. I should like to go up to
Rome, I think. Will you lead the way?"

So Mr. Errington obeyed, and the ladies rustled after them, taking Bumps
with them. When they came out on top, two geese were being held down
forcibly by a very hot and dirty little boy and girl.

"Stop your cackling, you brutes!" Jack was screaming. "I want you to
stop till I come up! They're no good, Jill, if they go on like this,
and they'll be flying over the tower next. What shall we do? Let us tie
their legs!"

"Jack!"

Mr. Errington's tone was so sternly indignant that the boy started and
let go of his goose, which flew frantically between the bishop's legs,
knocked Bumps down, and finally took a header down the the belfry stairs.

"What do you mean by this? How dare you use this church for such
a purpose? Isn't your garden large enough for your games?"

"We haven't got a tower," mumbled Jack.

Jill broke in eagerly. "Please Mr. Errington don't be angry. We haven't
been into the church. We wouldn't think of playing games in there. We
didn't think you'd mind up here, and it is a history game."

"It seems to me," said the bishop, looking at Mr. Errington with a twinkle
in his eye, "that you have some scamps amongst your parishioners as
well as examples. I have been hearing"--here the bishop turned to Jack
and Jill--"of some good little children that I think you would do well
to imitate. You might expend some of your superfluous zeal on following
their example. These children are steadily putting by a tenth of all
their money, and persuading many of their friends to do the same, with
the object of building a mission-room in a neglected neighbourhood!"

Jack and Jill looked at the bishop with open eyes and mouth.

"But that's _us_!" gasped Jill.

There was a moment's silence. Then the bishop's sense of humour
overcame him and he laughed loud, the ladies joining him, only Mr.
Errington preserving his gravity.

As he descended the stairs again, he said to the vicar, "One lives and
learns, Errington. I had forgotten the complex natures of children."

XIII

MONA'S TENTH

It seemed a long time to the children before Mona returned, and their
first sight of her was a distinct shock to them.

She came back with a closely-cropped head, and a white face, looking
so fragile that Bumps confided to Jack that she thought "Mona must be
nearly dying."

But her voice and laugh reassured them.

They wondered when they saw her kiss Miss Falkner.

"Do you like her very much?" asked Jack.

"_Very_ much," said Mona promptly. "She came to me when I wanted her,
and it was through her that I got well again!"

"But hadn't you any doctors?"

"Miss Falkner was my doctor."

This sounded puzzling, but Mona astonished them still more by things
she said and did. She came into the school-room while the Bible-reading
was going on and asked Miss Falkner questions about it, as if she were
one of her pupils. She started having family prayers; and then one
afternoon Jill found her trespassing again in the vicinity of "Bethel."

"I think I must join your Tenth Society, Jill. Tell me what you do."

Jill's face flushed crimson with delight.

"Will you? Do you mean it really? And will you put your tenth into the
red bag?"

Mona appeared to be considering.

"My tenth will be a big affair by the side of yours, Jill. What does
the red bag do with your money?"

"I take it to Mr. Errington every fortnight. He keeps the money. It's
for Chilton Common, you know. They do want a church there dreadfully."

"I think I must have a little talk with Mr. Errington about it."

"But you will help us to fill our bag, won't you?"

"I dare say I shall."

Mona was looking away through the pines rather dreamily as she spoke. Jill
brought her back to the subject in hand.

"And will you join us now? Properly? You will, won't you? And say the vow
by our stones like Jacob? Let me just go and tell Jack and Bumps. They
would love to hear you."

But Mona caught hold of her as she was flying off.

"No, Jill. Grown-up people have different ways to children. It isn't
a game to me, and it means a great deal more than you could imagine.
But I like your quaint idea of raising a little Bethel under the pines
here, and if you leave me quite alone, I will take the vow in the same
place that you did. More you cannot expect from me."

"But somebody ought to hear you," objected Jill. "I am sure it's more
proper to have people looking on."

"God will hear me. Did Jacob have people near him?"

Jill was speechless. Then obediently she walked away, and waited for
her sister at the entrance to the wood. When Mona joined her there was
a soft radiancy about her face that made her look very beautiful.

"Oh, Jill," she said, "a tenth seems such a miserable portion to offer
back. How shall I ever pay the debt of all the past wasted years?"

"And when will you divide your money?" asked Jill. "Do let me see you do
it. And if it's too difficult, Miss Falkner is very good at sums. She'll
do it for you."

"I shall go and see Mr. Errington this afternoon. You must be patient,
Jill. All in good time."

The next day the children were walking out in the village with Miss
Falkner when they met the vicar.

He beamed when he saw them.

"Have you heard the good news?" he said. "Miss Baron did not bind me to
secrecy. Perhaps she has told you herself?"

"I think I know," said Jill, nodding wisely.

"I have written to a builder, an old friend of mine, and asked him to
come over at once and talk it out with me. Now the money is forthcoming
we shall soon have the mission-room."

"What!" cried Jill. "Have you got enough money to build it?"

"Indeed I have. And we'll have it up in no time."

"I wonder how the people will like it," said Miss Falkner meditatively.

Mr. Errington looked quickly at her.

"A month ago I should have had heart-sinkings on that point. But I assure
you it is their chief topic at present when I go over to them. I fancy
sometimes they expect it to bring to them more temporal than spiritual
food; but it is owing to a visit from these small people that their
antagonism has vanished."

"But who--how have you got the money, Mr. Errington?" inquired Jack.

"Ask your sister. She may enlighten you."

"It is Mona's tenth!" exclaimed Jill, capering up and down in delight.
"How soon will it be built, Mr. Errington, next week?"

Mr. Errington laughed as he went his way.

"Oh, you young people! So hot and impatient, so quick to resolve and
carry out. I wish I could instill some of your spirits into the sluggish
natures that I have to deal with!"

The children could do little else but talk of Chilton Common all that day.

"And now," said Jack, "if all the money is got for the church, where is
our tenth money to go to?"

"I think it will be some time before everything will be bought," said
Miss Falkner. "You must remember there will be lots of things wanted
inside the mission-room; seats--hassocks, perhaps--lamps, and all kinds
of other articles. Mr. Errington will like to get your money for some
time to come, I am sure."

"And there are always the heathen to send it to," said Jill. "They never
come to an end, do they, Miss Falkner? You send your money to them always,
don't you?"

"Yes," Miss Falkner replied. "I feel more drawn towards them. At home here
in England there are so many to teach and help the ignorant ones. Out
abroad there are millions still out of reach of help and Christianity."

Jill looked grave.

"And how much money does it take exactly to make a heathen a Christian,
Miss Falkner?"

Miss Falkner smiled.

"I can't tell you, Jill. There is the cost of a missionary going out;
he or she are the means, with God's help, of converting a heathen. But
every little helps."

"Mr. Errington says the Chilton Common people are heathen!"

"Yes, dear, he means they are living without any thought of God."

"But we did that before you came to us. Really and truly, Miss Falkner,
we never thought about God at all. And I'm afraid I didn't want to. You
see no one had told us about the Golden City. And I didn't know that
Jesus loved us so, and would help us, and keep on forgiving us."

Jill's face was earnest and sweet. Her governess stooped and kissed her.

"But you know about it now, dear, and you must try to help others who
are still ignorant."

Jill nodded, then ran away to play.

Autumn came, and then winter. Mr. Errington's energy never flagged;
and it was a happy day for the children when the foundation-stone was
laid for the mission-room on Chilton Common.

Mona was asked to lay it, but for some time she hesitated, and suggested
that Jill should do it instead. Jill flatly refused, and Miss Falkner
encouraged her in her refusal.

"I do not hold with children being placed in prominent positions," she
said to Mona when they were talking the matter over. "Jill is a clever
child, and wants to be repressed rather than pushed forward. I am glad
to see she has the good sense to be shy of such a ceremony."

"But I am such a beginner," said Mona humbly. "I have never gone in
for good works, and lots of my friends--even Miss Webb--think that my
illness has left my brain a little weak and queer."

"Your friends could not think laying a foundation-stone queer conduct. And
if they do, what does it matter?"

The children were having their talk about it round the school-room fire.

"I shouldn't like to lay a foundation-stone," said Jack. "Fancy, if you
put it a little crooked, then the whole place would tumble down! Sam
told me so."

"I should love to build it all," said Jill. "Sticking bricks and stones
into clay or wet stuff is lovely! But I couldn't do it with a lot of
people and clergymen looking on. I hate people staring!"

"Is it the very bottomest thtone of all?" questioned Bumps with big eyes.

"Of course, stupid!" said Jack. "Do you think it would be the top one?"

"I asked Mr. Errington what it was going to be called," said Jill. "He
says he doesn't want exactly a church there, because he wants to give
them tea and magic lanterns in the winter, so it's a mission-room,
and do you know what he says we can call it? The Bethel Mission-room."

Jack and Bumps set up a cheer at once.

"It's called after our stones," went on Jill proudly. "Mr. Errington
said it had been built by tenths. And he told me the meaning of Bethel,
which I didn't know before."

"What does it mean?"

"The house of God."

There was silence for a minute, then Jack said slowly--

"But our place under the pines isn't that."

"I like to think it is sometimes," said Jill quietly.

The day came at last for the ceremony of laying the foundation-stone. Even
Miss Webb, who viewed most of Mona's proceedings now with raised eyebrows,
entered into the spirit of it with real heartiness.

When they drove out to the desolate spot all the inhabitants of the
Common were there, and Jack and Jill walked amongst them, greeting them
as old friends.

Mona performed her part very gracefully.

Mr. Errington had a good many friends present, but none enjoyed it all
so much as the children.

"This is only the very beginning of it," Jill confided to a rough specimen
of girlhood, who had been making depreciatory remarks, after the service
was over. "You wait till your room is built, then you'll see."

"What shall us see? A parson in a pulpit?"

"You'll see the way to the Golden City," Jill said enthusiastically. "And
Mr. Errington will be always telling you about it till you all set out
and go. And he'll give you teas and magic lanterns. I wish I lived here
to see the workmen build it. I should come and watch them every day, and
make them hurry."

As they drove home in the carriage with Mona they heard a startling bit
of news.

It was Miss Webb who began talking of the room.

"Mr. Errington is quite down at leaving. He told me it is only his wife's
health that takes him. He hopes to hurry on the building--but I doubt
if it will be finished before the New Year. It is strange that as soon
as he gets his desire about this wild bit of his parish that he should
have to leave it."

"Is Mr. Errington going away?" asked Jill breathlessly.

Mona looked at her gravely as she answered--

"Yes, I suppose you can all know it now. You can't be as sorry as I
am. I was just getting to like him so."

Miss Webb gave a little laugh.

"It wasn't so long ago that you used to vote him a bore, my dear. There
are plenty of clergy. We must hope for one as good."

"But," cried Jill, "he can't go away.  Who is to take our bag every
Saturday? And the room is for him to preach in. Oh, how dreadful of him
to go!"

"Lady Crane has the gift of the living, has she not?" said Miss Webb,
addressing Mona.

"Yes, I believe so," said Mona listlessly.

"Perhaps she may give it to Cecil Arnold. He is her nephew!"

A rich colour came into Mona's cheeks.

"Oh, no," she said confusedly. "Why should she? Besides, he would never
leave his work in the north."

Miss Webb nodded her head knowingly.

"Wait and see, my dear; wait and see!"

It was a great blow to the children, and as soon as lessons were over
the next morning Jack and Jill ran off to the Vicarage as hard as they
could go.

Mrs. Errington received them; her husband was out.

"We don't know what to do," Jill said breathlessly. "If Mr. Errington
goes away, we can't get on at all. Do beg him not to. Why does he go?"

"My dear child, we are both very loth to leave, but circumstances are
against us. I have been told by the doctors that I shall never be better
here. If we take this other living offered to us, I may be able to help
Mr. Errington instead of being a constant source of anxiety to him."

"It's the bag," Jill said; "it's the bag I am thinking of. I can't bring
it to a strange clergyman. I hate strangers! It's too bad of you!"

Jill actually began to cry.

"You see," explained Jack, "some people laugh at us. Now Mr. Errington
never did. He understood from the very beginning. Mona used to laugh,
but she doesn't now. Miss Webb always does. She told Jill she was a
Mrs. Judas, for she kept the bag. Mona scolded her. And Sir Henry Talbot
always teases us. He asks if we have taken up any more trespassers. They
think themselves very funny, but we don't think them funny, we hate
them when they talk so."

"I am sure no clergyman would laugh at you," said Mrs. Errington
gently. "We will tell our successor all about you, and he will be only
too glad to help you in every way he can."

"But what will you tell him about us?" asked Jill, drying her eyes. "You
won't tell him of our scrapes, will you? Say that we always mean to be
good, it's just accidents happening when we aren't. And tell him he has
just to take the money and use it for God, and ask no questions. Because,
when the room is built our money will still be going on. We shall never
stop, you know. We're not like Sam's father. He says his cabbages are
done, and he can't grow any more in the winter. But I know he has got
some turnips, and I'm going to talk to him about them. Oh, I do wish
you weren't going away!"

It was the general wish in the village, and there was great concern
amongst all Mr. Errington's parishioners. His church was never so full
as during the two months before his departure, and as Bumps pathetically
remarked--

"There'll be no one like him in church ever again. There never are twos
of anybody, except twins, and Mr. Errington isn't a twin."

XIV

"YOU AND YOUR RED BAG ARE AT THE BOTTOM OF IT ALL!"

Mona was looking out of the drawing-room window one fine bright frosty
afternoon, when she saw Jill tearing out of the stable-yard with the
large carriage-whip in her hand.

Her face was almost as red as her Tam o' Shanter, and Mona exclaimed to
Miss Webb--

"I wonder what is the matter! Jill is in one of her tempers. I hope she
is not going to wreak vengeance on any human being."

"Oh, let her alone," said Miss Webb. "She must have an explosion now
and then, for the way she bottles up her spirits now is marvellous.
Miss Falkner seems to have no complaint to find with any of them. It is
not natural."

Mona laughed lightly, but putting on a wrap she slipped out of the
house and crossed the lawn. Angry voices led her to the pine wood.
There before the trespassers' board she found Jill brandishing her whip
with fury in her face. Jack was by her side, armed with a stout stick;
and Bumps, well in the rear, was picking up fir cones, and throwing them
wildly at everybody.

Two workmen were the aggressors; the pile of stones was scattered on
the ground, and they seemed to be enjoying the children's wrath.

"Who put those stones up?" Jill was screaming. "_I_ did, and you're
thieves to touch them!"

"But they comed from that there wall," argued the younger of the men; "and
us have orders to build it up. 'Twasn't business of yours to take them
stones from the wall. Back they shall go, or my name isn't Jim Hall!"

"You dare to touch one!" shouted Jack. "Come on and try, we're ready
for you!"

"You're trespassers and thieves!" cried Jill. "Come on! I have my
whip ready!"

[Illustration: "YOU'RE TRESPASSERS AND THIEVES."]

It was at this juncture Mona stepped up. Directly she appeared, Jill
dashed forward.

"Look at these men, they've pulled down our stones! They did it on
purpose! They saw the board and they laughed at it. They are cheeking
us now."

"Hush!" said Mona. Then turning to the men she asked very quietly,
"Are you working for me?"

The elder touched his cap.

"Yes, ma'am--leastways for Mr. Courtney."

"What did Mr. Courtney tell you to do?"

"To make good that there stone wall, ma'am."

"Then why are you here?"

"We thought best to take what stones we could from here?"

"That was quite unnecessary. You had better put together that pile that
you have destroyed. I will wait here till you have done it."

But Jill objected.

"They shan't touch one of them with their dirty hands! I will do it
myself. Oh, Mona, it's a shame of them! They deserve a good thrashing.
If I were a man I would give it to them!"

Mona put her hand on Jill's shoulder.

"Gently, dear! I am sorry about it, but they did not understand. If you
don't want them here they can return to their work!"

"I never wish to see them again," was the vehement retort. "I--I--feel
like Elijah. I should like to call down fire from heaven to burn them up!"

Jill's passion was great. Mona wisely said nothing till the workmen had
disappeared, then she remarked--

"When you have put your pile of stones straight, Jill, you can run and
find Sam for me. I will tell him to make a little fence round this,
and then you will have no more trespassers."

She walked away, for she judged rightly that work would soon subdue
Jill's excitement. The idea of the fence delighted the children, and
they set to work with a will.

"Nobody dared to touch Jacob's stones, I know," said Jill; who could
not quite get over the act of sacrilege, as she considered it.

"Well," observed Jack, "the Bible mightn't tell about it, you see. He
had no fence."

"I know it was always there," persisted Jill, "because Miss Falkner told
me that Jacob went back there after, and made a proper altar."

"Yes," said Jack triumphantly; "because the other one had been knocked
down. Of course he did."

Jill pondered, as she tried to build up the stones in a tidy form.

"Then," she said, "we must have a proper altar, and I'll get some of the
mortar that those horrid men are using for their wall. We'll wait till
they have gone to their tea, and then we'll do it."

A resolve once taken by Jill was generally carried out. The three children
came in to their school-room tea triumphant.

"We've been building," announced Bumps, "and the thtones are all thtucked
together!"

"And Sam is going to make a fence round, and no one will be let in!" added
Jack:

"And if the clergyman that's coming isn't nice, I've thought of a lovely
plan for our bag; but it's a secret, and I'll tell you, Miss Falkner,
to-night when I'm in bed!"

Miss Falkner asked for an explanation of these fragmentary sentences,
and her little pupils gradually enlightened her.

When Jill was in bed, she made her governess stoop down, and putting
her arms round her neck, whispered--

"I've left a hole amongst the stones at the back, and I can cover it up by
fixing in a loose stone. So I thought my red bag would go in beautifully,
and then it would really be taken care of by God Himself. It couldn't be
in a nicer place, could it? It would be like the ark in the tabernacle--in
a holy place. And I'm not going to tell Bumps or Jack. Jack tells Bumps
everything, and Bumps tells everybody else!"

Miss Falkner looked rather doubtful over the wisdom of this, but Jill
seemed in such delight over the idea that she had not the heart to damp
her spirits.

But before leaving her, she said very gently--

"How has your walk been to-day, Jill? A few stumbles, I am afraid."

"Yes," whispered Jill. "I've told God I was sorry, only I was what the
Bible calls 'righteously angry.' I would like to have called down fire
from heaven upon those men. I told Mona so."

"But Jill, that was not 'righteous' at all. The men made a mistake. You
should have spoken gently to them."

"No," said Jill, "they meant to do it, and they laughed at it, and I
believe Sam's father is as bad. Since his cabbages are gone, he won't
pay up his tenth, and he says we have a heathen altar!"

Jill's cheeks began to get hot and red. Miss Falkner stooped down and
kissed her.

"If your Bethel is going to make you get angry--if it makes you trip and
stumble on your way to the Golden City, it had better be destroyed at
once."

Jill looked up with big eyes.

"Oh, Miss Falkner! How can you?"

"You mustn't make an idol of it, Jill, or you will be the heathen. You
grieve Jesus Christ by your hot temper. Perhaps you think more of your
'Bethel' than you do of Him!"

"I'm afraid I did to-day," acknowledged Jill with shame.

Then when her governess had left her, she put down her hot cheek upon the
pillow, and murmured, "I'm afraid it wasn't 'righteous' anger after all."

The Christmas holidays came and went. Mona was much more with her little
brother and sisters in Miss Falkner's absence. Every morning she came
into the school-room, and had the Bible-reading with them. They got
into many scrapes in their leisure moments, but on the whole were far
better behaved than formerly. In the beginning of the New Year the
"Bethel Mission-room" was opened. Perhaps to the inhabitants of Chilton
Common it lacked a little of the excitement and gaiety with which it had
been painted by Jack and Jill; but it was a very enjoyable day to all,
and a sit-down tea was given to young and old, at which, of course, Jill
was very much to the fore.

Mr. Errington left very soon afterwards, and for two months his successor
was not known.

Then one afternoon, when the children were roasting chestnuts over the
school-room fire, and Miss Falkner was writing a letter to her mother,
Mona appeared at the door.

"I want to introduce our new vicar," she said very quietly.

The children jumped up from the hearth-rug in the greatest state of
excitement.

"Why!" exclaimed Jill, as a tall broad-shouldered figure followed their
sister into the room, "it's the trespasser!"

"Yes, I am afraid it is," said Mr. Arnold in his deep and hearty
voice. "But we parted friends, did we not?"

"I should think we did just! Why we would rather have you as our clergyman
than any one else in the whole world!"

"Come! That's satisfactory. I did not think I would have so warm
a welcome!"

"Do you like chestnuts?" asked Jack, holding out a charred one between
two grubby fingers.

"Don't I?"

In a moment Mr. Arnold was down on the rug like a school-boy, and the
children's tongues went fast. Mona looked on smiling; then she said to
Miss Falkner--

"What is the fascination of roasting chestnuts, I wonder. Why do all
children love it so? You burn your fingers and the chestnuts, eat more
ashes than anything else, and scorch your face to pieces!"

"I think it is the love of cooking them," said Miss Falkner.

"It is the danger and difficulty surrounding the undertaking," said
Mr. Arnold, rescuing two chestnuts that had rolled over into the
fire. "Difficulties stimulate children, they do not deter them."

"I wish," said Mona thoughtfully, "they always stimulated me."

Mr. Arnold looked at her, but Jill broke in impetuously.

"Do you know about the Bethel Mission-room, Mr. Arnold? Will you go
there on Sunday and preach to the people?"

He nodded.

"Yes, I have heard all about it from Mr. Errington, also about a certain
red bag."

"Ah!" exclaimed Jack; "Jill has hidden that bag away somewhere since
Mr. Errington went. I say it isn't fair, and Bumps and I aren't going to
give her any more money till she tells us where it is."

"Yeth," echoed Bumps, "and we've looked everywhere, and Jill says,
she won't give it to another clergyman unleth he is nith!"

"Am I nice?" asked Mr. Arnold, with one of his sudden smiles.

Jill looked at him gravely.

"I will bring it to you every Saturday," she said, "even if there's only
a few half-pennies. But Sam gives us two shillings, and Annie threepence,
and Norah and Rose give us some when we see them, so sometimes we have
quite a lot. Only you'll tell us what you're going to do with it,
won't you?"

"Indeed, I will. We will have a long talk about it."

"And how are all your boys and girls?" asked Jill.

Mr. Arnold's face shadowed instantly. He was looking ill and careworn;
it was only in talking to the children that his face lightened up.

"Ah," he said; "my poor people! Don't remind me of them. Nothing but
the doctor's orders would have made me leave them."

Then speaking to Miss Falkner, he said--

"I have been ill, otherwise you would not have seen me here. As it is,
I fear I shall not find sufficient scope for my energies!"

"You have over a thousand in your parish," said Mona, "and Chilton Common
and other outlying districts in addition. I should think there was scope
enough for one man's energies, especially as that man has already had
a serious breakdown. Now come and have some tea. Miss Webb will wonder
what we are doing."

Mona carried him off, and the children did not see him again for some
time.

"Miss Falkner," asked Jill one day, "why doesn't Miss Webb like
Mr. Arnold? She doesn't, you know."

"Nonsense, Jill, you mustn't have such fancies."

"But it isn't fancy. I was looking at _Punch_ in the drawing-room window
seat yesterday, and Miss Webb said to Mona, 'Well, all I can say is, that
I wish Cecil Arnold had rather gone to Timbuctoo than come here.' And
Mona said, 'Nonsense!' like you said just now, and Miss Webb said, 'I see
the end. I shouldn't have been afraid a year ago.' And then she said she
was sorry for poor Sir Henry Talbot. Now what did she mean, Miss Falkner?
What is the end going to be?"

"You shouldn't listen to grown-up people's talk, Jill."

"But I couldn't help hearing."

"Then you should never repeat what you hear."

Jill subsided.

Mr. Arnold delighted Jill's heart a few Sundays after his arrival by
taking for his text the words: "Then the people rejoiced, for that they
offered willingly, because with perfect heart they offered willingly to
the Lord.

"But who am I, and what is my people, that we should be able to offer
so willingly after this sort, for all things come of Thee and of Thine
own have we given Thee."

He spoke of the different things people received from God, and how very
few of them they offered back, and then in plain and simple words he
touched upon the system of tenth-giving.

"There is not a little boy or girl in this church, however poor; there
is not a landed proprietor, however rich, who cannot side by side give
this small portion of what they receive to the service of God. The
poorest labourer can spare a tenth; he will be blessed in giving it,
and joy will be his portion."

And then he astonished his congregation by saying he would be in his
vestry every Saturday evening from six to eight, to accept the tenths
of any of his parishioners who liked to bring them to him.

There was great discussion amongst his congregation afterwards.

"I have no patience with these new-fangled notions," said Miss Webb.
"Cecil always did ride a hobby, and this money question is utterly
ridiculous. We are not Jews, thank goodness!"

"I think he is right," said Mona quietly.

"Oh, of course you do, my dear. He will be able to twist you round his
little finger now."

Mona was silent. Jill burst in opportunely--

"I shall take my red bag every Saturday to him, Mona. I wonder if anybody
else will be there."

"You and your red bag are at the bottom of it all I do believe,
Jill!" said Miss Webb laughing. "This wonderful Bethel of yours is
turning every one crazy!"

Jill did not like to be laughed at. She walked on with dignity, and did
not mention the subject again.

XV

"WORN OUT IN A GOOD SERVICE"

Lessons and play were the daily routine now. The children kept out of
scrapes wonderfully. Perhaps it was Miss Falkner's quick interference
before real harm was done, or perhaps it was as she liked to hope,
her pupils were getting more considerate of other people's feelings.

"It is their lively imagination, and their passion for acting out what
they hear or read, that works such mischief," Miss Falkner said to Mona
one day when they were talking over the children. "They are reckless
of consequences. Future results are never taken into consideration."

She said this when she had just stopped Jack from lighting a fire in
the loft.

He was a prisoner in hiding, he informed her, and he was going to cook
himself a meal. Bumps had been foraging for him, and had brought him
a raw piece of bacon.

"I was going to be most careful," he informed her. "Of course I wouldn't
light the hay. I pushed it all away, and had got quite an empty corner!"

But one day the children's energies were turned in another direction. They
were all devoted to Mr. Arnold, and as he lived alone with an old
housekeeper who was really fond of children, they very often found their
way over to the vicarage. Sometimes he invited them to tea with him,
and it was when they returned one evening from this dissipation that
they announced in the drawing-room--

"We are going to get Mr. Arnold a wife!"

Miss Webb exploded with laughter. She was reading the newspaper over
the fire. Mona was consulting with Miss Falkner at a table near about
a certain girls' club in the village that she wished to start. She
turned with a look of horror at the speaker, who of course was Jill;
Miss Falkner was too accustomed to her pupils' speeches to be surprised.

"Yes," put in Jack. "There ought to be a Mrs. Arnold, like Mrs. Errington;
we told him so!"

"To make his tea," said Bumps breathlessly, "and knit his thocks!"

"And have a pretty drawing-room and flowers," said Jill. "He doesn't
sit in the drawing-room like Mr. Errington did. He sits in his study, and
there ought to be a Mrs. Arnold to help him in the village."

"And what are your vicar's opinions on this important subject?" asked
Miss Webb.

"We've told him we'll get him one. We know more people than he does, and
we know just the sort he wants. She must be just like Mrs. Errington,
only not an invalid."

"And we aren't going to tell," said Jack wisely, "but we've picked
out somebody."

"Yeth, and we're going to thend her to Mr. Arnold to-morrow!" burst
forth Bumps excitedly.

Miss Webb threw up her hands in mock astonishment.

"Really! You don't mean it! And when is the wedding going to be?"

Mona here interposed.

"Jill, you are old enough to know better. You must not go to the vicarage
at all, if you talk such nonsense."

"It isn't nonsense!" Jill said indignantly. "Mr. Arnold wants a wife,
he said he did; and we're going to find one for him."

She rushed out of the room like a small whirlwind.

"Who is the happy lady, Jack?" asked Miss Webb inquisitively.

Jack was silent.

"Miss Falkner, you will have to assert your authority and stop this,"
said Mona, half laughing, yet half vexed.

"Let's tell, Jack," said Bumps, who loved giving information.

But Jack shook his head.

"We didn't even tell Mr. Arnold; we said we would send him some one
to-morrow."

"And have you told her her fate?" asked Miss Webb.

"Jill is going to see Miss Grant in the morning," said Jack with dignity,
and not perceiving he had let the cat out of the bag.

Miss Webb began to laugh afresh, and even Mona smiled. Miss Grant was a
lady between fifty and sixty who was an indefatigable parish worker,
but whose strong will and love of interference had always been a sore
trial to her vicar.

"You think she'll make him a good wife?" Miss Webb said, trying to draw
the children out.

"She's just the sort to make tea," said Jack, "and she'll be much more
help to him than Mrs. Errington would be, or any one else."

"I think you will have to keep certain small people hard at lessons
to-morrow, Miss Falkner. This proposed visit must be nipped in the bud."

Miss Falkner took her charges off to the school-room and presently
Jill appeared.

She seemed to have forgotten the subject under discussion, for she was
full of a plan she had talked over with Mr. Arnold of supporting a
children's cot in the local hospital.

"And my bag will begin it, like it did the Bethel Room. Don't you think
it lovely?"

Just before the children went to bed, Miss Falkner picked up an old
copy-book an the floor of Jill's bedroom. She did not often look at
her scribblings, but the first words startled her:

    "DEAR MISS GRANT,"--

She read on, with an anxious face, yet with a keen sense of humour--

    "We've been having tea with Mr. Arnold. We think you had better
    be his wife. He has not anybody to do things like Mrs. Errington
    did, and we told him we would find a wife for him. We said
    we would send her to-morrow. He wants a wife, and so he will
    expect you. Please tell him you came from us. And have your
    wedding-day very soon, because we shall all come and see you
    married. Mr. Arnold told us we could do this, so it is not wrong.

                                           "Your affectionate friend,
                                                         "JILL BARON.

    "P.S.--Jack and Bumps and I chose you, and we know Mr. Arnold
    will be pleased."

"Jill," said Miss Falkner sharply, "what is this?"

"Oh," said Jill unconcernedly, "it's a copy of a letter I sent Miss
Grant. I wanted to do it neatly, so I wrote it in there first."

"But you have never sent it?"

"Yes, I did. Annie was going out, and she took it to the post."

"But Jill, that was very naughty."

"Why?"

"You know why. Your sister was very vexed at your talking about such
things. I don't know what she will say now. You must come and tell her
what you have done."

"Oh, I can't; please don't make me--Miss Webb will laugh. It isn't
naughty. We simply _love_ Mr. Arnold. And why shouldn't he have a wife
as well as Mr. Errington? He didn't mind us doing it."

"He never told you to write to Miss Grant."

"No, because it was only afterwards that we thought of her."

Miss Falkner, in spite of her entreaties, took her straight to Mona,
who was in her bedroom dressing for dinner.

"I have brought Jill to tell you what she has done, as I think you ought
to know."

And then Miss Falkner left the little delinquent, who stood copy-book
in hand with hanging head before her eldest sister.

"It's--it's a letter I've sent to Miss Grant," said Jill.

Mona took the copy-book from her.

"Oh, Jill!" she exclaimed in real distress. "This is really very naughty
of you. You may make a great deal of mischief, and annoy Miss Grant
extremely. I don't know how we can put it straight."

"I don't see what I've done wrong," said Jill stubbornly.

"Little girls have no business to interfere with grown-up people. I don't
know what Miss Grant will think; I must see Miss Falkner. Ask her to
come here, and you had better go straight to bed."

"It's always the way," Jill confided to Bumps when they were both in bed
that evening; "everything I do turns out wrong. Children can't be kind
to grown-up people. It's no good to try. They won't let them. And Mr.
Arnold will never have a wife, if he doesn't have Miss Grant. There's
no one else like her."

"But you sent her a letter," said Bumps comfortingly.

"Yes, but Mona is going to do something dreadful to-morrow. I know
she is."

As a matter of fact Mona did nothing. She felt powerless to act. Miss
Webb counselled silence. She seemed to be enjoying the whole thing;
Miss Falkner spent nearly an hour in bringing Jill to reason, but she
repented of some of her words when they happened to meet Mr. Arnold in
their morning walk. Jill flew to him at once.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I really did it for the best. I told Miss Grant to go
to you, but Miss Falkner says I oughtn't to have anything to do with
husbands and wives. She says Miss Grant will be made uncomfortable and
so will you; and I wouldn't make you uncomfortable for _worlds_!"

Mr. Arnold looked at first as if he did not know what she was talking
about; then he began to laugh, and his laugh was so infectious that
Miss Falkner could not help joining him.

Jill eagerly continued to explain--

"Hasn't she been to you? Then perhaps it is all right. I'll never try to
find a wife for you again. Miss Falkner says wives can't be found like
we thought, and she says God is the only one that can find one for you."

Mr. Arnold looked perfectly coolly into Miss
Falkner's face.

"Thank you," he said. "I believe in that too. My little friends were too
anxious on my behalf. And as to Miss Grant, I wish her a more suitable
partner than myself, Jill. Is your sister in? I want to ask her about
a parish matter."

He left them, and crossed the pine wood to reach the house, but he never
got there, for he saw Mona leaning against the new wooden fence looking
with dreamy, wistful eyes at the children's "Bethel," and he went straight
to her.

The scent of the pines, the pale blue sky behind them, and the quiet
sacredness of the spot rested and soothed Mona's soul. She turned at
the sound of his footsteps, but never changed her position; when he
looked into her face he found her eyes were full of tears.

"I come here when life is difficult," she said, trying to speak lightly.
"I have been thinking over Christ's words, 'How hardly shall they that
have riches enter into the kingdom of God.' I long sometimes to ease
myself of the burden and responsibility of my money, by casting it to
the winds. Can you advise me? I want to be a faithful steward. What
shall I do?"

Cecil Arnold's opportunity had come.

It was some days before the children knew the result of that
interview. They were all three tidying up their "Bethel," which Miss
Webb said now reminded her of a small church-yard, when they saw their
sister and Mr. Arnold slowly approach them.

They were close to the fence before they noticed the children, then Mona
started, a rich colour came into her cheeks and she tried to withdraw
her hand from Mr. Arnold's arm. He held it fast, and said to her with
a twinkle in his eye--

"Allow me to receive my congratulations. I must enlighten them."

"Two trespassers again, Jill!" he called out. "May we come inside
your gate?"

"Yes," said Jill, stopping in her feat of brushing dead leaves away;
"you and Mona aren't trespassers, for you belong to our Tenth Society,
and you don't laugh at our 'Bethel.'"

"Laugh at it?" said Mona tremulously. "I shall bless it all my days!"

Then Mr. Arnold spoke, and his voice was hushed and reverent, though
there was a glad light in his eye.

"I thought you children would like to know whom God has graciously given
to me as a wife."

"Why it's Mona!"

Surprise and delight were in the children's faces.

Jill exclaimed--"I never should have thought of Mona. She doesn't seem
like a clergyman's wife, but it's awfully nice."

"Why don't I please you?" Mona asked. "Not good enough, I know."

"Well, I think you're too smiling and--and too young."

Mr. Arnold laughed.

"And I am too old and grave. But, Jill, as a boy and girl we promised
to marry each other, so we are only keeping our promise."

"Why have you been so long before you did it?" asked Jill with interest.

That question remained unanswered.

Jack and Jill were full of excitement and curiosity. Bumps was the only
one who seemed disappointed.

"We can't never find a wife for him now, he hath found hithelf one!" she
lamented.

She and Jill were standing by their lodge gate next day when they saw
Miss Grant coming along. For one moment Jill thought of flight, then
she bravely stood her ground. They had been bowling their hoops along,
and were a little breathless with their run. Miss Grant looked at them
severely, then came across the road to them.

"Jill," she said, "what do you mean by writing me such a letter? Who told
you to do it? I am surprised that a little girl of your age should act
so forwardly!"

Jill got crimson at once.

"It was all a mistake, please," she said, "and I'm sorry you got it. We
were trying hard to find Mr. Arnold a wife."

"Who put you up to it?" demanded Miss Grant. "I consider it a grave
insult, and I was thinking of seeing your sister about the matter. She
and your governess don't know how to keep you in order."

"No one put me up to it," replied Jill eagerly. "I made a mistake,
and it's a good thing you didn't go to him. Please forget it."

"Yeth," put in Bumps with an emphatic nod of the head, "he didn't want
you after all, becauth he has got Mona."

Miss Grant beat a hasty retreat. She never mentioned the subject again.

On the following Sunday Jill went to the vestry to hand in her bag. She
had not been the only one who had responded to the vicar's invitation,
for several of the villagers had appeared, and though their offerings
were small, they were willing ones. She stood waiting whilst the
village shopkeeper and a farmer's wife were taking their tenth out of
their well-worn purses. Then a voice behind her startled her. It was
Sam's father.

"Eh, Miss Jill, here I be after you and your bag agen!"

"Oh, Mr. Stone, what have you got? I'm so glad you haven't given up!"

"I did have a mind to, as 'ee knows, but parson here do seem so set on
it that I've been lookin' through some savin's o' mine."

Mr. Arnold said good-night to the two women, and turned to the old man.

"Are you bringing your money to me, Stone?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, sir, that I be--'ee do talk so convinceable that I be quite worried
till I have done it."

"You must take it back again. I am only here to take my Master's money."

Old Mr. Stone rubbed his head.

"I see yer meanin'. In course I bring it to the A'mighty. 'Twas a mere
mistake in speech."

The old man counted out of a canvas bag, to the astonishment of Jill
and his vicar, five pounds in silver.

He moved a step nearer and spoke in a low, mysterious tone--

"Fifty pun have I laid by for death and burial, and the rest to Sam,
but never a penny have I laid by for the God that brought me into the
world, and that be soon going to take me out. The little lass hammered
away till I gave her my cabbages, then I said 'No more,' for I kep'
thinkin' o' these savin's, that no mortal body do know on. But, parson,
your words be hot and uncomfortable, and las' night I lay thinkin' o'
this here vestry an' Miss Jill's red bag. 'Twasn't the sermon, nor yet
the bag, nor you and Miss Jill put together, but 'twas God that spoked
to me in the night.

"'I have loved 'ee,' He kep' sayin', 'I have loved 'ee, Tummas, I have
loved 'ee.' An' then came that there tex' 'ee preached on last Sunday,
'Lovest thou Me?' and I were fair broken down. I knowed what the Lord
did want. The tenth o' my savin's! And bless God, I knows He loves me,
and 'tis that has brought me!"

"Thank God," breathed Mr. Arnold, stretching out his hand and taking
Thomas Stone's hard, horny one in his. "I take this gladly, and thank
you in my Master's name."

When the old man had gone Jill drew near. She held out her bag a little
sorrowfully--

"It has only three shillings and a half-penny in it," she said; "and
two shillings are from Sam, and threepence from Annie. I'm afraid our
money is very, very little."

"Never mind," said Mr. Arnold cheerfully, seeing her downcast face,
"God does not expect more from you at present."

Jill sighed.

"And my bag is wearing out," she said mournfully, "and Miss Falkner
has no more red flannel; she thinks a bag can be made of anything,
but I like my old one. It has great holes, and as fast as I mend them
they tear out again."

"Poor little bag!" said Mr. Arnold, taking it in his hand. "It is worn
out in a good service. Will you let me have it, Jill? I should like to
hang it up in the vestry here, so that I can look at it sometimes. What
is this tape on it? Something written on it."

"I did that," said Jill, her face in a glow of delight at Mr. Arnold's
words.

He read out slowly--

"Of Thine own have we given Thee."

The letters were crooked and uneven. He smiled at Jill, then hung the
little bag up on a nail.

She looked at it proudly. All sorrow for its uselessness had gone.

"It looks lovely up there!" she said. "And I don't mind now having a
new one."

"But don't have a new motto, Jill. Keep that to the end of your life--'Of
Thine own have we given Thee.'"

Jill nodded, and then she ran away home.