"The doctor says you ought not to stay in London," Angel said,
thinking this a suitable opportunity for telling him the truth;
"he says you must go to a warmer climate, almost directly."

"That is impossible, my dear."

"Oh no, father, indeed it is not! Uncle Edward wants us all to go and
live with him at Haresdown House; he has spoken to the doctor about
the climate of Wreyford, and he says it will just suit you, for it is
beautifully mild and dry. Oh, father, we want you to get well
quickly, and you never will if you stay in London!"

"Is Uncle Edward in the house now?" Mr. Willis asked, his voice
trembling with mingled weakness and excitement.

"Yes; I think he is in the sitting-room."

"Then, run and ask him to come here, say I wish most particularly
to speak to him."

Angel obeyed, and in a few words explained the situation
to Mr. Bailey.

"I am very glad you have mentioned the matter to him, my dear,"
he said; "I will certainly go and hear what he has to say, and I have
little fear but that he will do as I wish him. He will see that for
his children's sake his health ought to be his first consideration."

Angel sat down, and waited impatiently till Mr. Bailey returned.
He was absent what appeared to her a very long time; but when he did
at last reappear, his face was beaming with pleasure, and his manner
triumphant. "It is all settled, Angel," he told her; "your father
has promised as soon as ever he is well enough to leave here for
Haresdown House. I must run down to Wreyford in the course of a few
days, and see everything is in readiness. And I think Mrs. Steer
had better be informed of our plans, so that she may look out
for fresh lodgers."

Mr. Bailey was evidently much elated at the prospect of having his
own way; he told Gerald the news the moment the latter returned
from school, and was pleased at the boy's intense delight.

"I shall have to leave school before the end of the term," Gerald
remarked, "for Easter will not be here till the beginning of April,
and it is only the middle of March now!"

"Never mind, never mind!" Mr. Bailey told him. "It will not be much
loss for you to miss a week or so."

"But father will have to pay a term's fees, as he hasn't given
a term's notice for Gerald to leave!" Angel cried anxiously.

"What a little woman of business it is!" Mr. Bailey exclaimed,
laughing amusedly. "Don't worry that wise head of yours about
details. Leave everything to me."

Angel was quite ready to do that, as was her father now that he had
consented to his uncle's plan; he was still far too weak to be
troubled about business matters, and appeared perfectly satisfied
with the existing state of affairs.

The only person who was not entirely pleased at the prospect of the
exodus of the Willis family from London was Mrs. Steer. She shed
tears when discussing the subject with Angel, and only cheered up
when the little girl promised to write to her when they were all
settled at Wreyford.

"It isn't only that I'm sorry to lose you as lodgers, Miss Angel,"
she said, "for I take a real interest in you all. Your pa's as
pleasant spoken a gentleman as I ever knew, and during the two years
and more he's been beneath my roof, I don't think he's once spoken
a cross word to me, much less complained that his food hasn't been
properly cooked, as some folks are so fond of doing. And I don't know
that I ever came across any one so hopeful when things go wrong
as he is. I wish him good health, and every success in the future,
that I do; and I'm only sorry he wasn't brought to some good trade
or profession, so that he might have had a chance of making a
comfortable income, instead of having to paint for a living—and a
poor living it is, I take it!"

"Ah, but some day, when father has finished his great picture, as he
would have done before now if only he had not fallen ill, he will
make a good living!" Angel declared, her eyes glistening at the
thought.

"I am sure I hope he may," Mrs. Steer replied, her face expressive
of the doubt she felt, "for I'm very certain he deserves success; but
folks don't always get what they deserve in this world, and it's as
well not to expect too much."

This was not a very cheering sentiment, but Angel was far too happy
to allow herself to be depressed, or to be annoyed because Mrs. Steer
did not fully appreciate her father's abilities.

Mr. Bailey paid a short visit to Wreyford within a few days, and on
his return reported that everything had been done at Haresdown House
according to his instructions, and the house was now fit to be
occupied. He had been recommended a middle-aged woman as housekeeper,
and he had seen her installed and left her with orders to prepare
for the reception of his family.

"So our home is ready for us," Mr. Bailey said, "and we need only
wait for the doctor's permission to allow you to travel, John. There
is no necessity for you to worry, or even think about the packing
of your belongings, for I will superintend everything myself."

By that time Mr. Willis was able to go into the sitting-room every
day; his nurses had left him; and he was slowly but surely gaining
strength. He had been sitting by the fire listening to his uncle's
remarks, and there was deep feeling in his voice as he replied—

"You are our good angel, Uncle Edward; it seems as though God sent
you home to be with us in our time of need. I dare not imagine what
would have become of us but for you! I can never thank you for all
you have done, and I can never repay you for your kindness—"

"Nonsense, nonsense!" Mr. Bailey interrupted. "I want no thanks—
 have only done for you what, if our positions had been reversed,
you would have done for me."

His face was very red as he spoke, and there was certainly
a mistiness in his eyes, to hide which he blew his nose, and then
went on to make plans for their move into the country.

They were all eager to leave London, Angel as much so as either of
the others, yet when she came to say good-bye to the dingy lodgings
which had been home to her for more than two long years, there were
tears in her eyes. She thought how, in all probability, she would
never more look out on the miles of roofs, and listen to the city's
roar; and she wept aloud as she kissed Mrs. Steer, whilst that good
woman was not less moved, and declared that she had never had lodgers
she had felt parting with before.

CHAPTER X

Spring Flowers

IT was a beautiful morning, towards the end of March, as Miss
Goodwin, suitably equipped for gardening in a short skirt, shady hat,
and thick gloves, bent over the diamond-shaped flower-beds cut in the
grass plot in front of her house, and carefully hoed the rich mould
between clumps of daffodils and various other spring flowers.

March, which had come in with blustering winds, was going out like
the proverbial lamb. The air was balmy, and sweet with the delicate
scent of hyacinths, and violets; and the gentle rain which had fallen
during the night had washed all traces of dust from the budding
foliage of trees and shrubs; whilst, save for a few fleecy clouds
in the far distance, the sky was one great curtain of blue. It was
what Miss Goodwin mentally called a "growing day;" the whole world
seemed—astir with young life; and the sparrows twittered noisily
beneath the eaves of the roof of the house, where they were busily
preparing nurseries for the reception of their broods.

Miss Goodwin's back was towards the garden gate, so she did not see
a little girl and boy coming down the road from Haresdown Hill; but
they caught sight of her as they were passing the house; and as they
were unobserved, paused to look at the pretty garden with its show
of gay flowers, and the small figure so busily at work.

"Oh, what a lovely place!" whispered the little girl. "I think
I never saw such beautiful flowers growing before, did you, Gerald?
But what a queer old lady! I suppose she lives here. Do look at her
white stockings and elastic-side boots!"

At that moment Miss Goodwin glanced around, becoming suddenly
conscious that she was being watched, and perceived the children.
She guessed who they must be, the great niece and nephew of the new
owner of Haresdown House, who had arrived only the preceding night;
and as she knew all about them, she jumped to the conclusion that
they must know all about her.

Angel and Gerald were moving away with flaming cheeks, ashamed at
having been caught staring, and afraid the old lady would consider
them very rude, when she hastened to the gate and called to them
to stop.

"Oh, wait a minute!" she cried. "How do you do, my dears? I am very
glad to see you, very glad. I cannot shake hands because, as you
perceive, my gardening gloves are earthy; you must take the will
for the deed."

They paused, and looked in astonishment at the withered face beneath
the big, shady hat; there was a distinctly friendly light in the old
lady's blue eyes, and she nodded and smiled in a most genial fashion.

"How is your father?" she continued affably. "Was he much tired after
his journey yesterday? I heard he had been very ill; but I trust
he will soon be set up in health."

"He was very tired last night," Angel answered, "and he is rather
tired this morning, but Uncle Edward said he bore the journey
very well, considering how ill he has been."

"Ah, he will soon get well in this beautiful air!" Miss Goodwin
declared. "You have always lived in London, have you not?"

"Yes, always!" they answered.

"Ah, I was never there in my life; I have always lived at Wreyford.
In London they tell me you might not know your next-door neighbours!
I should not like that." And she shook her head decidedly.

"We did not know our next-door neighbours," Angel admitted with a
smile.

"Really? How strange! I know every one in Wreyford, and every one
knows me. Now, which of you is the elder?"

"I am," the little girl answered, thinking the old lady was very fond
of asking questions, "although Gerald is so much taller than I am."

"Gerald, is he called? And you? What is your name?"

"Angelica."

"But we always call her Angel," Gerald explained; "Angelica, is such
a mouthful."

"Angel is a very sweet name, to my mind," Miss Goodwin said gravely.
"Are you on your way to the town?"

"Yes," Angel assented. She hesitated, and then said apologetically,
"I hope you did not think us very rude for stopping, and looking in
at the gate. We were admiring your pretty house, and beautiful
garden; we never saw such lovely flowers growing before!"

"Come in, and I will give you some with great pleasure," Miss Goodwin
said, with an inviting smile as she opened the gate for them
to enter. "I did not think you rude at all. You are fond of flowers?"

"Oh yes!" they both replied eagerly; and Angel added, "Father loves
them too."

Suspended from Miss Goodwin's waist was a chatelaine, from which she
detached a pair of scissors, and proceeded to cut some of her finest
blooms.

"I am going to make a nosegay for your father," she informed
the children, "because he is an invalid, and sick folks like to have
little attentions paid them."

"Oh, he will be so pleased!" Angel cried, her eyes shining
with gratitude, "How very kind of you!"

"Kind? Not at all! It is always a pleasure to me to give flowers
to those who appreciate them. Some people do not care for flowers;
once I heard them called useless. Useless! Would God have created
them if not for some good purpose? He knew the longing of our souls
for beauty. Look at these wind flowers—anemones they are really
notice how delicately they are made! And these daffodils—golden
glories, I call them. Do you see how the tender green of the stalks
is softly shaded off over the backs of the blooms? Here are
wallflowers; we will have some of these for our posy because of their
scent."

"Their colours are lovely, too," Angel said; "but are we to have all
these flowers for father? Oh, how good of you! What pretty variegated
grass!"

"It is called lady's grass or ladies' ribbons," Miss Goodwin told
her, as she added a few strands to the bunch of flowers, and then
tied all the stalks together with a piece of bass which she produced
from the capacious pocket of the big, gardening apron she wore
to protect her gown. "I am glad you like my garden," she proceeded,
her blue eyes sparkling with pride as she noted the admiring glances
the children were casting on every side; "will you come in and look
at my house?"

"It is very kind of you to ask us," Angel replied, "but we must not
stay any longer, for we have some errands to do for Uncle Edward
in the town."

"Come again another day," said the old lady hospitably, as she placed
the nosegay in the little girl's hand. "Pray give the flowers to your
father with my compliments, and say I hope to have the pleasure
of calling on him and Mr. Bailey before long."

"Who shall we say sent them?" asked Gerald, thinking this was
a capital opportunity of finding out the name of their new
acquaintance.

Miss Goodwin did not perceive the drift of his question, though she
looked a trifle surprised as she answered—

"Why, say I sent them, of course!"

The children exchanged amused glances; then, after a moment's
hesitation, Angel explained the situation.

"You see, we do not know who you are," she said. "Won't you, please,
tell us your name?"

"You don't know who I am!" the old lady cried in amazement. "Well,
I never! And I have lived in Wreyford all my life!"

"But we only came last night," Angel reminded her, "and we don't know
any one in Wreyford yet, except the Mickles; I know them because
I went to their house when I spent a week here with Uncle Edward
before Christmas, but I did not see you then. Father will like
to know who sent him these lovely flowers!"

"I am called Goodwin—Anna Goodwin—Miss Anna Goodwin," the little lady
informed them with a slight stress upon the "miss." "I knew
Mr. Bailey when he was a boy, and I knew your grandfather too! Well,
if you really must go, good-bye! Come and see me again soon."

They promised, and took their departure with their faces wreathed
in smiles, whilst Miss Goodwin watched them out of sight, and then
returned to her gardening. When they passed Myrtle Villa on their way
back to Haresdown House, after having executed their errands in the
town, the quaint little figure of the gardener had disappeared.

So far Angel had kept possession of the flowers, occasionally lifting
them to her face to enjoy their fragrance; but as they commenced
the ascent of Haresdown Hill, Gerald said—

"I say, Angel, I think it's about time I had a turn at carrying those
flowers. You've had them all the way!"

"I didn't know you wanted to carry them," Angel responded quickly,
as she willingly delivered them up to her brother.

He had had no desire to do so, but it had suddenly occurred to him
that he would like to be the one to present the bouquet to their
father; and in his eagerness to be the first to reach home, he got
a few steps in advance of his sister.

"Wait for me, Gerald!" she cried. "How fast you are going!"

She was rather breathless, for she was unaccustomed to walking much,
and the hill tried her. But Gerald, instead of waiting, only laughed,
and hastened on ahead. They were now within sight of Haresdown House,
which, situated on the slope of the hill, was bathed in sunshine; and
with new blinds and curtained windows presented a very different
appearance to that it had done when Angel had first seen it
four months previously.

Suddenly Gerald commenced to run, and before Angel had reached the
garden gate, he had disappeared under the porch into the house.
She thought it was rather unkind of him to leave her, and tears rose
to her eyes because she had so much wanted to witness her father's
look when he caught sight of the nosegay, and now she would be too
late for that; but the next moment she told herself how very foolish
she must be, for Gerald could not have thought she would be
disappointed.

She entered the house very soberly, and turned immediately into the
dining-room, a long, low apartment, in which were two windows
reaching to the ground. Mr. Willis lay on a sofa close to one of the
windows, through which the sun was streaming and Gerald had already
given him the flowers.

"Come here, Angel," Mr. Willis said as his little daughter appeared,
"and tell me what good fairy sent me these. Gerald says they are a
present from a lady!"

"So they are," Angel replied, her face brightening as she met her
father's smiling gaze. "Are they not beautiful?"

"Most beautiful! And freshly gathered, I see. Then the scent—
how fragrant! Wall-flowers! Hyacinths! Anemones! Scarlet japonica!
How marvellously well the colours blend! And daffodils too!"

"That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty."

"Surely you must have met with some very kind-hearted person to get
all these!"

"Oh, father, I wish you could have seen her, she was so funny!"
Gerald exclaimed, laughing merrily at the remembrance of Miss
Goodwin's quaint figure. "Such a queer little woman she looked
with an odd, old face, and wearing a short frock, and a big apron!"

"And she has the kindest, bluest eyes I ever saw," Angel cried
eagerly; "and a bright, clear voice—like a silver bell! She said
we were to come and see her often; and she's going to call on you and
Uncle Edward. Her name is Miss Anna Goodwin, and she lives in a dear
little house called Myrtle Villa, at the bottom of the hill—we passed
it as we drove from the station last night, only, of course,
you wouldn't notice it in the dark."

"I am sure she must be a charming old lady," Mr. Willis said
earnestly; "but what made her think of sending these flowers to me?"
he asked, looking puzzled.

"Oh, because you are an invalid! She seemed to know all about us,
and was quite surprised when we told her we did not know what she
was called." And Angel repeated almost word for word the conversation
they had held with Miss Goodwin.

"Well, I feel most grateful to her," Mr. Willis said, when his little
daughter had finished her tale, "and I hope she will keep her word,
and come to see me. Now, in what can I arrange my flowers?"

He glanced around the room, which was comfortably and substantially
furnished; but there were no vases or jars to be seen. Angel went
to the kitchen, and explained their need to the housekeeper,
Mrs. Vallance, who told her to look into the china cupboard, and take
whatever she wanted. Accordingly, she selected a big blue bowl,
finding nothing more suitable, and returned with it to the dining
room. Mr. Willis declared it was just the thing he required, and when
he had arranged the flowers in it to his satisfaction, had it placed
on a small table close by the side of his sofa.

The children were delighted to see how much brighter their father
was looking; his voice was more cheerful, and he spoke hopefully of a
speedy recovery.

When Mr. Bailey came in from the back garden, where he had been
giving directions to a gardener the story of Angel and Gerald's
interview with Miss Goodwin had to be told again.

"Goodwin—Goodwin," he repeated thoughtfully, "why, of course
I remember there was a Miss Goodwin in Wreyford! Is it possible
she is still alive? She must be a great age!"

"She said she used to know you, and grandfather too," Gerald said;
"and I should think she is awfully old, her face is covered
with wrinkles, and her hair is perfectly white."

"Then I dare say it is the same Miss Goodwin. Where does she live?
At Myrtle Villa? Of course I ought to have remembered! To think that
she should be still alive!" And Mr. Bailey looked quite excited.

"She must be a dear old soul, I am sure!" Mr. Willis exclaimed.
"I only hope she did not rob her garden of all its flowers!"

"Oh no, there were plenty left," Angel assured him; "you could hardly
see where those were gathered. And she seemed so pleased to cut them
for you."

"I wish she knew what pleasure they are giving me; I must tell her
if she calls. I feel as if I have made a friend in Wreyford, though I
have never met her yet." And the smile which lit up Mr. Willis' face
as he spoke was full of gratification.

Angel met her uncle's eyes saw that he too had noticed how much
brighter the invalid was looking; but neither realized how much the
little old maid's spontaneous act of kindness had to do with his
better spirits; perhaps he did not realize it himself, although his
eyes constantly wandered to the flowers in their fresh, spring
beauty, and he repeated many times ere the day was done, "It was very
good of her to send them to me."

CHAPTER XI

On the Bridge

THE Wreyford Grammar School stood in the main street of the town.
It was a substantial grey stone building, with a large playground
at the back, which, on a certain April morning, presented a decidedly
uproarious scene, some sixty boys of all sizes and ages being
assembled there, talking, shouting, and laughing at the top of their
voices. Some of the boys were boarders, but the majority was
comprised of day pupils, who represented not only the leading
families of the town, but the small traders and farmers of the
surrounding districts as well, for the Wreyford Grammar School was
open to all whose parents could pay the very moderate fees demanded.

The boys had just been dismissed for the Easter holidays; and
presently a door in the wall leading into a lane at the back of Fore
Street was opened, and they began gradually to disperse through that
exit. Almost the first to leave was Gilbert Mickle: No one attempted
to speak to him as he passed through the crowd of boys except his
brother, who was talking to a group composed of his boon companions,
and shouted to him to ask if he was going home already.

"Yes," answered Gilbert sourly; "I don't want to remain here in this
hubbub."

"All right!" was the cheerful response. "Don't wait for me; I'm not
coming yet."

Gilbert turned away, conscious that Tom's friends were whispering
about him; he did not suppose their remarks were very flattering, and
a dull angry flush rose to his face, whilst the ill-tempered lines
between his brows deepened as he hurried between the knots of boys,
and at last found himself in the lane. He moved more slowly then, and
reflected bitterly on the scene he had left. Not one of his
school-fellows had so much as wished him enjoyable holidays, he was
thinking, when the sound of quick footsteps behind him made him
glance around.

"I say, Mickle," said a hearty, jovial voice, "I'm awfully glad
you've won the form-prize as I haven't. I thought all along
you would, although I tried hard to get it myself. But I was fairly
beaten. I'd rather be licked by you than any of the other fellows."

Gilbert looked at the speaker—Richard Higgs, the son of a bookseller
and stationer in Wreyford, and his chief rival at school—and made
no reply. Higgs was a tall, wiry youth with a crop of orange-coloured
hair surmounting a round, freckled face, out of which a pair
of honest green eyes smiled good-naturedly at his school-fellow.

"I hope you'll have a jolly fine time these holidays," he proceeded;
"I mean to."

"Thank you," Gilbert responded, speaking more graciously than usual;
"it's awfully good of you to speak so—so generously about the
form-prize, for I know you worked very hard to win it."

At that moment several other boys overtook them; and, with a nod
to Higgs, Gilbert turned away and proceeded alone. Presently he came
to the end of the lane, and passed through a narrow opening between
two houses into the main street. He had intended going straight home;
but reflecting that there was still an hour before dinner-time,
he took the opposite direction, and had soon left the town and
reached the old stone bridge which crossed the Wrey.

It was a beautiful day; the river sparkled like silver in the
sunshine, whilst the meadows stretching on either side of the water
were yellow with cowslips. Gilbert leaned over the bridge, and gazed
into the shadows beneath, watching the small fish which darted hither
and thither as though at play. A red-breasted stickleback aroused his
interest by turning viciously upon its companions every now and then
with wide open mouth, making them flee out of its way at a great
rate, as though for their lives. Approaching footsteps caused him
to glance up presently, when he saw the figure of a man coming
towards him slowly, from the direction of the town—a stranger; he was
clad in a thick overcoat although the weather was warm. When he
reached the bridge he sat down on one of its low stone walls as if
glad to rest awhile, and then Gilbert noticed he looked as though
he had been ill, and knew he must be Mr. Willis. The lame boy
had never seen the artist before, although Haresdown House had now
been inhabited three weeks, and Tom had been there several times,
having set up a friendship with Gerald Willis, who had been
introduced to him, in the town one day, by Mr. Bailey. Mr. and Mrs.
Mickle had called on the newcomers, and Dinah and Dora had renewed
their acquaintance with Angel; but hitherto Gilbert had avoided
Haresdown House and its inmates; he hated strangers, and would have
certainly moved quickly away on this occasion if his curiosity had
not prompted him to linger.

He glanced at Mr. Willis furtively from under his sullen brows for a
few seconds, and saw that the artist looked much younger than he had
pictured him; then, seizing his crutches, prepared to move.

"I hope I have not disturbed you," said Mr. Willis, smiling; "you are
Gilbert Mickle, are you not?"

"Yes," the boy answered shortly.

"Then I think you and I ought to know each other," Mr. Willis
remarked cordially, holding out his hand; "I believe I have met all
the other members of your family. My name is John Willis."

"I thought so," Gilbert exclaimed. He could not refuse to grasp the
extended hand, though his one idea was to get away as soon as
possible. "I hope you are better?" he inquired awkwardly.

"Oh, much better, thank you. Are you in a hurry? Will you not sit
down and talk to me for a bit?"

"Well—if you like."

It was scarcely a gracious answer. Gilbert seated himself a few steps
away from his companion, and rested his crutches by his side;
his self-consciousness made him nervous, so that he clumsily allowed
one crutch to slip, and crimsoned with vexation as he stooped to pick
it up.

"I can't go far without my props," he said, with the bitter
intonation in his voice which it always pained his mother to hear.

"So I understand," Mr. Willis replied in matter-of-fact tones. Being
a tactful man and a keen judge of character, he deemed it best not to
enlarge upon the other's lameness, or show the sympathy he felt;
but calmly changed the conversation by saying, "I have now come from
the town, and whilst I was making a few purchases from Mr. Higgs,
the stationer, asked him some questions about the Grammar School—
I mean, my boy to go there after Easter—and he told me you and his
son have been rivals this term."

"Yes. Higgs and I both wanted to win the form-prize."

"And you won it, I understand! I congratulate you."

"Thank you. I thought Higgs would be mad—I know I should have been
in his place—but he wasn't a bit. He spoke to me about it after the
school had broken up this morning; said he'd rather be licked by me
than by any of the other fellows, and I really believe he meant what
he said."

"He has evidently learnt how to take a defeat in the proper spirit.
I suppose you are very elated at being the victor?"

"No, I don't think I am. Mother and father are pleased, but I'm not
so glad as I thought I should be."

The boy spoke in a depressed tone, as though he took a jaundiced view
of things in general.

"Your mother was telling me the other day that you are fond of
drawing and painting," Mr. Willis said, after a lengthened pause,
during which he had been debating what subject would be likely
to interest his young companion.

Gilbert's face brightened as he admitted the truth of his mother's
statement.

"I haven't touched a brush for nearly two months myself," Mr. Willis
continued, with a faint sigh; "my illness has been a great drawback,
but now I am so much better and stronger, I shall soon be at work
again: I have chosen a pleasant room at Haresdown House for a studio.
You must come and see it."

"I should like to." Gilbert looked greatly pleased. He had heard
of the artist's disappointment at not being able to finish his
picture in time for exhibition at the Royal Academy that year, and
longed to question him about it. "Your little girl told us about the
beautiful picture you have been painting," he proceeded hesitatingly.
"Did you—did you bring it with you?"

"Yes," Mr. Willis answered. His face saddened for a moment, then
brightened again.

"Yes," he repeated more briskly, "I brought it with me—we have no
home in London now—and one day I hope to finish it. So Angel told you
about it, did she? What did she say? But, there, I won't ask, for I
know my little maid has an exalted idea of her father's abilities.
Poor child, she has always kept her faith in me. Would you like
to see my picture?"

"Oh, indeed I should!" Gilbert cried, a flush of delight rising
to his sallow face at the thought.

"Then, you shall; but not to-day. I don't think I shall feel up to
much this afternoon. How about to-morrow?"

"I could come then—any time."

"In the afternoon? We shall all be glad to see you."

"Thank you, so much. I will be at Haresdown House about three
o'clock. Are you going to walk home?" Gilbert inquired, for his
companion looked pale and tired, he thought.

"Oh no! I am going to wait here until my uncle joins me. He has set
up a pony-carriage, you know, and will arrive from the town to drive
me home. I can't face that hill yet."

"I should think not."

"But I hope to do so very soon. What a pretty place Wreyford is!
This bridge is very old, I imagine?"

"Yes; it is one of the old county bridges. Have you seen the church?"

"Only from the distance; I have not been there yet—perhaps I may
next Sunday. It is a grand old building, my uncle tells me, and my
little girl is simply charmed with the view from the churchyard."

"It is beautiful!" the boy cried. "You can see for miles and miles
around from Haresdown Hill—the church is right at the top, you know.
And the town looks so pretty in the valley, and the river—" He broke
off abruptly, as though rather ashamed of his enthusiasm; and then
added briefly, "But you'll see for yourself."

The artist nodded. He had taken a large size notebook from the side
pocket of his overcoat, and was glancing through the pages of it.

"I am going to show you a sketch I made a few days ago," he said,
smiling. "I wonder if you will be able to recognize the original!"
And he handed the book open to Gilbert.

"Oh, I say, how awfully clever of you!" the boy exclaimed. "Oh, what
a capital likeness!" With a few strokes of his pencil Mr. Willis had
succeeded in depicting Miss Goodwin's little figure in her old
fashioned cloak and poke bonnet, with her waterproof over her arm.

"I am glad you see whom it is intended to represent," Mr. Willis
said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "She was our first caller.
I made that sketch of her from memory; of course it is a caricature,
but not an unkindly one, I hope. She is a dear old soul!"

"Oh yes," Gilbert agreed. "Every one likes Miss Goodwin. This is a
very good likeness of her, Mr. Willis—goloshes and all!"

It was wonderful how much better looking the boy's face appeared when
he laughed, as he did at that moment. Mr. Willis told him he might
look at the other sketches in the book if he liked, and as he turned
over the pages, explained their contents to him.

"I wish I could draw like this," Gilbert said earnestly, as he
at last closed the book and returned it to its owner. "I should so
much like to be an artist; but father wants me to be a lawyer
like himself, and—"

He broke off in the midst of the sentence as the sound of wheels
was heard, and a pony-carriage driven by Mr. Bailey, drawn by a
strong Exmoor pony, appeared in sight from the direction of the
town.

"We will continue our conversation to-morrow afternoon," said Mr.
Willis pleasantly, as his uncle drove up, and brought the pony to a
standstill. "I am afraid I have kept you waiting a long time, John,"
Mr. Bailey observed apologetically. "I was unexpectedly delayed at
several places—How do you do, my lad?" he said, holding out his hand
to Gilbert, who reached for his crutches and came forward to shake
hands with him.

"I'm quite well, thank you," the boy answered. "What a nice little
carriage! And, oh, I say, what a jolly little pony!"

"Yes," Mr. Bailey nodded complacently as his nephew took the seat
by his side; "it's a trim turn-out altogether, isn't it? The pony
is a rare one to travel, and such a strong, sure-footed little beast.
Pixy, he's called. Why haven't you been to see us yet, eh?"

"He is coming to-morrow afternoon," Mr. Willis answered quickly;
"I have been arranging it with him."

"That's right! That's right!"

Mr. Bailey gathered up the reins, and Pixy started off at a swift
pace. Mr. Willis looked back and waved his hand to Gilbert, who,
leaning on his crutches, stood gazing after the pony-carriage.

"That's a cross-grained boy, if I'm not much mistaken," the artist
remarked shrewdly, "and a very unhappy one too. He is very different
to the other Mickle children—perhaps his affliction has soured him."

"Perhaps so," Mr. Bailey agreed, "but I thought he looked bright
enough to-day."

Meanwhile Gilbert had glanced at his watch, and had discovered that
it was half-past one o'clock, which was his dinner-time. How the last
hour had simply flown! What an interesting companion the artist was.
And what good spirits he appeared to be in, considering his recent
severe illness, and the disappointment which had attended it. Gilbert
felt sure, under similar circumstances, he himself would be in a most
depressed condition.

He turned towards the town, still thinking of Mr. Willis. He was glad
he had met him, for now he had made his acquaintance he would not
mind seeing him again, and although he had really desired to know
him, he had dreaded the first interview. As a rule strangers were
greatly struck by the boy's lameness, and if they did not remark
on it in words, generally showed their sympathy for his affliction
in their faces, which only annoyed him, for he strongly resented pity
in any form. Certainly Gilbert Mickle's character was a strange one.
On his return home he found his family already seated at the dinner
table, and his father, who liked punctuality, reproved him sharply
for his tardy appearance. Contrary to his custom on such occasions,
Gilbert explained how it was he had been delayed, and told how the
time had flown.

"Old Gilbert's in a rare good temper," whispered Tom to Dinah, for he
was an adept at reading his brother's countenance, "you can see that
by his face; I hope he means to keep in the same humour during the
holidays. I expect he's more pleased at having won his form-prize
than he pretends!"

CHAPTER XII

Gerald's Selfishness

"ANGEL, I want to speak to you!"

Angel, who was engaged in industriously weeding a corner of the back
garden which her uncle had allotted to her as her own, turned her
face towards her brother, and paused in her work as she asked—

"Well, Gerald, what is it?"

Both children had greatly improved in appearance since their arrival
at Wreyford, Angel more noticeably so; already her cheeks were
rounder, and their old pallor was giving place to a ruddier,
healthier hue.

"What is it?" she repeated, as Gerald did not immediately reply.
"I'm listening. But, be quick, and tell me what you want, for I'm
very busy; Miss Goodwin is going to give me some flower seeds, and I
must get the ground ready for them, because Uncle Edward says it's
high time they were tilled."

"I want to know if you can lend me some money, Angel?"

"Why, what have you done with the sixpence father gave you
yesterday?" she cried in surprise.

"Spent it, of course! It doesn't take long to spend sixpence!"
he exclaimed irritably.

"No; but don't you remember father said he should give you no more
this week?"

"I know, I know! That's why I want you to lend me some."

"I really can't. I'm very sorry, Gerald, but—"

"Oh, how selfish of you!" Gerald interrupted, his eyes flashing
indignation upon his sister. "I had no idea you could be so stingy.
Do you really mean to say you won't lend me some money?"

"I can't, I can't, indeed!" Angel cried distressfully. "I would if I
could; but I haven't got any. Not a penny!"

Gerald looked incredulous for a minute, then he said—

"What have you done with it all? There was that half-crown Uncle
Edward gave you the day after we arrived here—you can't have spent
all that?"

"He gave you half-a-crown at the same time, and yours was gone
a fortnight ago," Angel reminded her brother; "and you've had money
from father besides, and I haven't."

"Well, you needn't be cross! Of course boys want more money than
girls," Gerald declared in a lordly tone. "Are you sure you can't
lend me just a few pence?" he asked persuasively.

"Quite sure. Do you think I would tell you a story about it?"
she demanded, her grey eyes flashing indignantly.

"No, no," Gerald responded hastily; "I was only surprised to think
you had spent all your money."

"I don't see why you should be. Let me see," said Angel reflectively,
"I bought some notepaper with bunches of violets on each sheet
because I wanted to write to Mrs. Steer, and I thought she would
be sure to like my letter better if it was written on pretty paper—
that was a shilling. Then, the little jar for flowers I gave
to father for his studio cost another shilling—that's two shillings.
And threepence I spent in sweets one day when I was in the town
with Dinah and Dora Mickle—that's two shillings and threepence. And—"

"Oh, I don't want to know how you spent it all!" Gerald interposed
impatiently; "since it's all gone, it's no matter."

Angel proceeded with her weeding, her brother watching her with
rather a dissatisfied expression on his handsome face. Presently he
reopened the conversation—

"Angel, couldn't you ask father to change his mind, and let me have
a little money?"

"Oh no, no, I couldn't," she answered hastily.

"Oh, you might. He always does what you ask him—" this in coaxing
tones. "Don't be disagreeable, Angel."

"I don't mean to be disagreeable," the little girl said, looking
troubled, for she rarely refused any request of her brother's, and it
distressed her to do so now, "but I can't ask father for money when
he hasn't earned any for months. I'm sure he hasn't much to spare."

"What a nuisance! Well, then, how would it be if you asked Uncle
Edward instead?"

"Gerald!" Angel exclaimed, looking positively shocked at the idea.
"You really can't mean it."

"Why not? I believe Uncle Edward has plenty of money; I'm sure he'd
willingly give me a shilling or two if you asked him. He's awfully
fond of you, he is indeed."

"Oh, I couldn't ask him. Think of all he has done for us; how he
managed and paid for everything when father was ill, and how he has
brought us to this beautiful place. Oh, I couldn't ask him for money!
How can you suggest it? It would be dreadful. It would seem so greedy
after all his kindness."

Angel spoke so emphatically that her brother saw it was useless
to argue the matter. He stood with his hands thrust into his
trousers' pockets, kicking the small pebbles in the path, his face
a picture of discontent. He considered his sister very unkind and
disobliging; but he had no intention of putting his petition to his
uncle himself.

"Never mind," Angel said consolingly after a few minutes' silence,
during which she had reflected that probably Gerald did not mean
to be greedy, "you will have your usual pocket-money from father
on Monday. It will not be long to wait till then. What are you going
to put in your garden?" she inquired, with the laudable desire of
changing the conversation to a pleasanter subject.

"I don't know that I shall till it up at all. I don't much care for
gardening—it's too much work."

"But I thought you told Uncle Edward you wanted a piece of ground
for yourself?"

"I've changed my mind. I don't care about it now."

Gerald was evidently in a bad temper, recognizing which fact,
Angel wisely held her peace, and continued her work in silence.

"It's a nuisance father has asked Gilbert Mickle here this
afternoon," said the boy presently in a grumbling tone. "I don't like
him a bit, do you?"

"I—I hardly know," Angel responded, with some hesitation. "I am very
sorry for him because he's lame, and I'm afraid he isn't very happy.
I think he looks so sad."

"He looks awfully bad-tempered. Tom says the best way is to take
no notice of him if he's snappy. Oh, Tom didn't say anything against
him, only that when Gilbert's in a temper it's better not to answer
him back because he's so sharp, you're sure to get the worst of it.
Tom thinks a good bit of Gilbert, really—says he's most awfully
clever! I don't believe he'd hear a word against him. I wish Tom was
coming this afternoon too."

But when Gilbert appeared, punctually at three o'clock, he was alone.
He found Mr. Bailey leaning over the front gate; and Mr. Willis was
walking up and down in front of the house, in the sunshine, with his
little daughter. The lame boy was greeted very cordially, and made
to feel welcome. He was shy at first, but when he was taken into the
studio and shown some of the artist's work, he lost all feeling
of self-consciousness and talked without restraint.

"Where is Gerald?" Mr. Willis asked suddenly, turning to Angel,
who was herself wondering what had become of her brother.

"I don't know, father," she answered; "I have not seen him since
dinner. I think he went out, but I am not sure."

"Perhaps he is in the house, and does not know our visitor
has arrived," Mr. Bailey suggested; "he may be in his own room."

"I will go and see if I can find him," Angel said, seeing annoyance
in her father's face, and rightly guessing that he was vexed
at Gerald's absence.

But although she searched upstairs and downstairs, in the stable and
outhouses, and even in the orchard beyond the back garden, Gerald was
not to be found; and she was reluctantly obliged to return to the
studio, and confess that he was not on the premises. Mr. Willis made
no comment, but his face expressed his displeasure; he was showing
his unfinished picture to his guest, who was standing before it
with flushed cheeks and eyes glowing with enthusiasm.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Angel said softly. "Do you like it?"

"Like it!" the boy echoed; "I can't say how much I admire it. It is
indeed beautiful! How sorry you must have been to have been obliged
to put it on one side," he remarked, turning to Mr. Willis.

"Yes," the artist acknowledged, "but I have no doubt now it was for
the best, though when I was first taken ill the thought of my
unfinished picture was my one great trouble, for I meant it to do
so much."

"But you will finish it some day," Gilbert said eagerly. "Is there
a lot more to be done to it?"

"No, mostly finishing touches; but those I shall not attempt to put
until I am quite well, lest I should spoil the whole."

The afternoon passed very pleasantly and swiftly, so that Gilbert
was astonished when Polly, the rosy-cheeked maid who assisted the
housekeeper, came knocking at the studio door to inform her master
that tea was ready in the dining-room.

"Oh, how long I have stayed!" the boy cried apologetically, as he
hastily seized his crutches. "I must have been here hours."

"Only two hours," Mr. Bailey said, with his hearty laugh, adding
hospitably, "You must remain one longer and have some tea with us.
Oh, you must; we shall not like it, I assure you, if you persist
in leaving." And he laid his big, kindly hand persuasively
on Gilbert's shoulder.

Gilbert yielded willingly enough, and followed his host into the
dining-room, whilst Mr. Willis drew Angel aside, and questioned her
about her brother. "I really don't know where he is, father,"
she said in uneasy tones, "but I fancy he may have gone away this
afternoon because he knew Gilbert Mickle was coming, and he doesn't
like him."

"If so, it is extremely rude of him," Mr. Willis replied; "he ought
to have been at home to help entertain our visitor."

"Yes," Angel acknowledged; "I am so sorry, father."

"Well, my dear, it is not your fault, so you need not look so serious
about it."

They had nearly finished tea when Gerald marched into the room,
looking perfectly unconcerned. The minute he saw the visitor,
however, his countenance changed, for it had not occurred to him
that Gilbert would remain so long.

"Where have you been all the afternoon?" Mr. Willis inquired sharply.

"I've been fishing, father."

"Alone?"

"Yes," the boy responded, adding, after a moment's hesitation,
"that is, part of the time."

"Sit down and have your tea now," Mr. Bailey interposed; "I dare say
you are hungry."

No further questions were asked Gerald for the present, but the boy
saw his father was annoyed with him. Later, when Mr. Bailey
volunteered to walk part way home with Gilbert, Mr. Willis would not
permit Gerald to accompany them. Angel went with them as far as the
garden gate, and watched them down the hill; and on returning to the
dining-room, she found her father had been taking Gerald to task
for his rudeness in absenting himself from home that afternoon, and
Gerald was trying to find excuses for his behaviour.

"I don't like Gilbert Mickle," he was saying as Angel entered
the room; "I don't suppose he wanted to see me; he scarcely ever
has anything to say to me."

"Perhaps you scarcely ever have anything to say to him," Mr. Willis
replied gravely; "but that has nothing to do with the matter.
I consider your behaviour this afternoon both rude and selfish—
particularly selfish. Where did you go fishing? In the river,
I suppose?"

"Yes," Gerald answered sulkily. "Uncle Edward told me not to fish
in the clay pits, so, of course, I didn't."

Mr. Bailey had presented him with a fishing-rod a few days
previously, since when he had spent many hours with Tom Mickle,
fishing in the Wrey, with no very encouraging results as yet.
The clay pits to which he alluded were old disused mines which had
not been worked for many years, the supply of clay having failed;
they were very deep, and full of stagnant water, where such fish
as roach and dace bred, and supplied sport for the boys of the
neighbourhood who were not content with fishing in the river.

That afternoon, being alone, Gerald had soon grown tired of fishing,
especially as the fish declined to bite, so he had put aside his rod,
and idly wandered along the bank of the stream till he had met a boy
with whom he had entered into conversation. His new acquaintance
had informed him that his name was Reginald Hope, and that his father
was a doctor in Wreyford, and that he himself attended the Wreyford
Grammar School; after which they had grown quite friendly, and had
spent a very enjoyable time together. This Gerald told frankly
enough; but he refrained from telling what the chief part of his
conversation with Reginald Hope had been about, for he had a very
shrewd suspicion that his father would not approve of it. The fact
was, his new acquaintance had rather amazed him by talking a great
deal of betting, and boasting of the money he had won by that means;
and though Gerald had considered him a fine, manly fellow whilst
he had been talking to him, and had admired his free-and-easy mode
of speech, yet now he was away from the glamour of his presence
he was doubtful if Reginald Hope was the sort of boy his father
would like him to be on very friendly terms with.

"I am sorry you think I behaved so rudely this afternoon," Gerald
said presently, as he began to realize that Mr. Willis had just cause
for his displeasure; "I—I suppose it was not polite to go away
like that."

"That it certainly was not; but I think more of your selfishness.
I wish you would try to consider others sometimes."

Mr. Willis spoke reprovingly, though with a softer tone in his voice
now, as he noticed his son was really beginning to look repentant
and ashamed of himself.

"I don't mean to be selfish," Gerald said in a low tone. "Shall I
apologize to Gilbert Mickle?" he suggested doubtfully.

Mr. Willis shook his head, much to Gerald's relief. Angel began
to give her brother an account of the lame boy's visit; but he did
not appear much interested, not even when she told him how much
Gilbert had admired their father's picture.

"And Gilbert draws himself," she informed him; "he is going to let
father see some of his sketches, and father has promised to say what
he really thinks of them."

"Tom says Gilbert's always drawing up in the attic," Gerald replied,
"but he won't show any of them what he's doing. He's an awfully close
sort of fellow. Tom thinks he's afraid of being laughed at."

"Perhaps Tom doesn't spare his brother's feelings," Mr. Willis
remarked; "it strikes me that Gilbert is a very sensitive boy, and no
doubt cannot stand ridicule. Poor lad! His is a sad affliction."

"It must be terrible to be lame," Gerald exclaimed. "But perhaps
as he's always been like that he doesn't mind so much."

"I should say that is very doubtful," Mr. Willis said, with a grave
shake of his head. "I think he minds greatly, and has not learnt yet
that God generally compensates those He afflicts. I don't think
he appreciates the bright mental qualities with which he is evidently
endowed. He appears to me a very clever boy, and shrewd beyond his
years. I am told he is one of the shining lights at the Grammar
School."

"Yes, but the boys hate him!" Gerald cried.

"How do you know that, Gerald?"

"Oh, that fellow I met this afternoon told me so. He says Gilbert
Mickle's temper is as crooked as his legs."

"What an unkind thing to say—" Angel was beginning when she suddenly
paused, as the remembrance of the way in which the lame boy
had behaved to her on their first acquaintance crossed her mind, and
she had to admit to herself that there was certainly some truth
in the speech.

When Mr. Bailey returned, he refrained from mentioning the subject
of Gerald's absence from home that afternoon, much to that young
gentleman's relief; he informed them he had parted from Gilbert
at the bottom of the hill, and went on to say—

"He thanked me most gratefully for accompanying him so far, and I
asked him to come and see us as often as he liked. He is going
to bring some of his drawings to show you, John, the next time
he pays us a visit. He appears deeply interested in your work."

Whilst the others continued to talk of Gilbert Mickle, Gerald was
busy with his thoughts, which were of his new acquaintance, Reginald
Hope. He felt he must see more of him, and hoped it would not be long
before they met again. Reginald Hope had boasted that he was never
without money in his pocket; and had hinted that perhaps he might,
on another occasion, tell Gerald how that came about; and Gerald,
as he reflected on his present penniless condition, thought he would
much like to know the secret of the other's wealth.

"What are you thinking about so deeply, Gerald?" his father's voice
broke in upon his musings.

"Nothing," the boy answered quickly, flushing guiltily as he met
Mr. Willis' kind, inquiring eyes; "that is, nothing of any
importance."

"I should have thought it was something of importance judging by your
face," Mr. Willis returned good-humouredly; "but never mind, my son,
your thoughts are your own."

CHAPTER XIII

In the Meadows

ONE sunshiny afternoon found Angel with Dinah and Dora Mickle
gathering cowslips in the meadows which stretched on either side
of the Wrey, whilst Gerald and Tom fished in the stream. The little
girls all had baskets, which, when they were filled with the golden
flowers, they carried to the spot where the boys sat on the bank
fishing, and commenced making cowslip bulls under Dinah's directions.

"To think you never saw cowslips growing before you came to Wreyford,
Angel!" Dora exclaimed, as, having finished one ball, she threw it
into the air, and caught it again and again. "You wouldn't like to go
back to live in London now, would you?"

"No," Angel returned, her eyes wandering across the meadows with a
great contentment in their grey depths. "What are those lilac flowers
called?" she inquired.

"Oh, those are cuckoo-flowers," Dora answered. "We call them
cuckoo-flowers because they begin to open about the time the cuckoo
comes," Dinah explained; "some people call them 'ladies smocks,'
but they are really a sort of cress, and always grow in rather damp
ground."

"What a lot you know about flowers," Angel said. "I suppose that is
because you have lived in the country all your life."

"I don't know so much about flowers as Gilbert does; he remembers
their botanical names, and understands how to classify them. He would
tell you the cuckoo-flower is a species of cardamine. By the way,
have you heard the cuckoo this year yet?"

"Yes, when I was in the garden with father yesterday. I could not
think what it was at first. I thought it must be one boy calling
to another," Angel confessed, colouring slightly.

"Oh, you silly thing!" cried Tom, looking over his shoulder at the
little girls who were seated on the ground a few yards behind Gerald
and himself. "What an ignoramus you must be!"

Gerald joined in the laugh against his sister, though he was
conscious that he might have made the same mistake himself, knowing
as little as she did of the sights and sounds familiar to country
folks.

"I know it was silly of me," Angel acknowledged, good-temperedly
smiling, for she was beginning to understand that Tom Mickle never
meant his out-spoken remarks in an unkindly spirit; "father and Uncle
Edward both laughed at me, and no wonder."

"But if you had never heard the cuckoo before you could not be
expected to know what it was," said Dinah in her matter-of-fact way.
"Everything in the country must seem strange to you, and to Gerald
too."

"Oh, Angel," broke in Dora, "there's a robin's nest with three young
ones in it in our back garden! I had nearly forgotten to tell you.
Gilbert found it yesterday; it is in a hole in the hedge close to the
river—such a snug little home, made of moss and lined with horse
hairs. You shall see it for yourself."

"Where did the robin get the horse hairs?" inquired Angel
wonderingly.

"Picked them up, of course," Tom replied, with a laugh.

"Are you going to take the young ones?" Gerald asked.

"Take the young ones!" Dora echoed in horrified tones, whilst her
sister turned a pair of reproachful eyes upon Gerald. "I should think
not indeed. We wouldn't do anything so cruel. I don't know what
Gilbert would do to any one who touched the nest, or the young ones
either!"

"Gerald didn't mean it," Tom broke in hastily. "Every one knows
robins won't live in captivity."

Gerald had not known it, but he wisely held his peace, for he had had
visions of rearing the young birds in a cage, and he now saw such
a suggestion would not meet with the approval of his companions.

"I should so much like to see the nest," Angel said, "and I wouldn't
touch it. Robins are such dear little birds! There was one that used
to come to our sitting-room window in London, and pick up crumbs from
the window-sill. He used to arrive regularly at breakfast-time—didn't
he, Gerald?"

Gerald nodded. Dora was still looking at him disapprovingly;
she could not imagine how any one could want to rob a nest, for in
her eyes a bird's home was sacred; she thought Gerald must be a very
cruel boy, but there she was wrong, for he was only thoughtless, and
had no idea of inflicting pain. Dora was very tender-hearted, so much
so indeed that if her family heard a sad story it was always—
"Don't tell Dora!" And her mother sometimes wondered how the
sensitive little girl would fight the battle of life in the years
to come.

Soon several cowslip balls had been made, and the boys being weary
of fishing, some one suggested a game of "Hunt the Hare" for a
change. Tom was the first hare, and a fine run he gave the hounds
across the meadows, over hedges and ditches, until it seemed he never
would be caught. The Mickle children, accustomed to healthy, out-door
exercise, were fleet of foot, but Gerald managed to keep pace with
Dinah and Dora; Angel, however, soon grew breathless, and fell behind
the others, who pressed hotly upon their quarry, leaving her behind.
She followed, at a slower rate, in the direction they had taken,
until, after climbing a hedge, she found herself in a narrow lane,
and sank, crimson and panting, upon a mossy bank, incapable of
proceeding further for the present. When Angel had somewhat regained
her breath, she glanced around, and saw that no one was in sight,
neither could she hear the sound of her late companions' voices,
so she decided to wait where she was for a while, and rest a bit.
It was cool and pleasant; the hedgerows were bursting into leaf, and
the beech trees on either side of the road, meeting overhead,
were tipped with foliage of the tenderest green, whilst fronds
of ferns were pushing their way through the rich mouldy soil amidst
a carpet of luxuriant moss. Angel heaved a sigh of perfect
contentment. How happy she was! She felt at that moment as though
she had not a trouble in the world. Her father was daily gaining
health and strength; there were no worrying unpaid bills to weigh
upon her mind; Uncle Edward was kindness itself, and she was growing
to love her new home; and lastly, she thought how she was to go to
the school which Dinah and Dora Mickle attended the coming term.
Her life was to be a lonely one no longer, and she was to have the
same advantages as her brother. How pleased her mother would be
if she knew. The tears rushed to her eyes, gushed forth, and ran
unheeded down her cheeks as she recalled the tones of her dead
mother's voice, and pictured the dear face she had loved so well.

Angel was so engrossed with her thoughts that she never noticed
some one approaching, till a peculiar tap-tap broke upon her ears,
and looking up hastily she perceived Gilbert Mickle swinging himself
along on his crutches.

"Good afternoon," he said, as he came in a line with the little girl.

"Good afternoon," she answered.

He paused, and looked at her inquisitively, noticing the tell-tale
tears upon her flushed cheeks and her quivering lips. The thought
entered his mind that the boys had been teasing her, for he knew
his sisters and Tom had gone to join her and her brother in the
meadows.

"You've been crying," he remarked, frowning till his heavy brows
nearly met.

"Yes," she acknowledged truthfully, glancing up rather shyly into his
handsome, ill-tempered face. She could not tell that he was feeling
sympathetic towards her. "It was very silly of me," she added, "but I
couldn't help it."

"The boys have been teasing you, I suppose? You shouldn't take any
notice of them. Tom's never happy without he's humbugging some one,
and I dare say your brother is as bad!"

"Oh no!" she exclaimed, realizing he meant his advice kindly.
"I've been having a lovely time picking cowslips, and we've been
playing 'Hunt the Hare.' I got left behind, and—"

"Is that why you've been crying?" he inquired in accents of contempt.

"Oh no, no! It was—I was thinking how happy I was, and wishing my
mother knew, and then—she is dead, you know."

She paused, having become somewhat incoherent. Her companion made no
response, though he thought he was beginning to comprehend the
situation.

"I don't suppose you can understand," she proceeded, "because your
mother is living—"

"Oh yes, I can," he interrupted. "I expect it makes you unhappy when
you think of your mother, and that's why you cried?"

"No, not because I'm unhappy, but because I miss her so. Sometimes
when I'm happiest I miss her most."

"Well, I wouldn't cry any more if I were you," he counselled, looking
puzzled at her reply. A slightly sarcastic smile crept over his face
as he continued, "Why should you cry if you are not unhappy? But,
there, I suppose being a girl you can't help piping your eye.
Girls are all the same."

Angel made no response to this, for though she was indignant,
she thought it better not to enter into an argument with Gilbert.
She felt annoyed that he should have caught her in tears; but she was
greatly surprised when his next remark showed how plainly he read
what was passing through her mind.

"I say," he said, "you're vexed I came along just now, aren't you?
You need not mind. I shan't tell the others you've been blubbering.
You were very fond of your mother, eh?"

"Oh yes! You're fond of your mother, aren't you?"

He nodded, his face softening into a smile. Then he asked if she
meant to follow the others, and receiving a reply in the negative,
inquired if she knew her way home.

"No," Angel returned, "but I think I know my way back to the meadow
where we picked the cowslips; I must go back to get my basket, and
for certain the others will return there too."

"I may as well go with you. Oh, I can climb a hedge!" he told her
as he noticed her dubious look; "if my legs are not up to much,
my crutches are strong, and I know how to use them to some purpose,
I can tell you."

She was surprised with what dexterity he managed to swing himself up
the hedge, and drop off it on to the other side. She followed with
far less agility.

"Can I assist you?" he asked sarcastically as he watched her slow,
cautious movements; "you are not such a good climber as I am,
after all!"

Angel laughingly declined his help, and scrambled over the hedge
as best she could, after which they crossed the meadow, got over
another hedge, and so on until they neared the river's side. Every
now and again they paused to listen for the others' voices, but no
sounds were to be heard except the cooing of wood-pigeons and the
lowing of cattle in distant fields. Angel made a nosegay
of buttercups and cuckoo-flowers, whilst her companion watched her
in silence.

"Are you fond of flowers?" she asked presently. "I suppose you must
be, as Dinah says you know a lot about them."

"I like them," he said, "but I don't care about gathering them;
I prefer to see them growing. When people pick flowers they mix them
together regardless of their colours; but when you see them growing,
the colours are sure to blend properly. Look at those buttercups and
cuckoo-flowers springing up side by side in the grass—yellow and pale
lilac—there's nothing to offend one's taste there. Nature doesn't
make a mistake."

"It is all so beautiful!" Angel exclaimed, her appreciative eyes
wandering over the fair landscape. "Do you know what I overheard
Miss Goodwin say to father the other day? They had been talking
of the pretty places about Wreyford, and Miss Goodwin said: 'Beauty
of any description always makes me understand God's love.' I think
I know what she meant, don't you?"

"Yes," he answered briefly.

They had now reached the spot where the boys' fishing rods and the
baskets full of cowslips lay, in safety, on the river's bank;
evidently no one had been there during the children's absence. A few
minutes later Tom's voice was heard at no great distance, shouting
lustily. The hare had outwitted the hounds, and was returning
triumphantly to the starting-point.

"Didn't you follow, Angel?" Tom gasped, as he flung himself on the
ground to regain his breath.

"Yes," she replied, "but I got behind the others and missed them,
then your brother found me, and I thought we'd better wait for you
here. I knew you'd return."

"I hope Gilbert has been making himself agreeable," Tom said in his
teasing way.

"Oh yes," Angel answered simply; at which Tom laughed heartily, and
Gilbert frowned.

"Where have you been all the afternoon, old chap?" the younger
brother inquired of the elder.

"For a walk."

"You might as well have come with us; we've had such a jolly time."

"I don't care about gathering flowers, and I like fishing still
less," said Gilbert disdainfully.

"In short, you prefer your own sweet company to ours. Oh, I say,
old fellow, don't go!" Tom cried hastily, as his brother was moving
away. "You're never going off in a huff, are you?"

"I'm not in a huff."

"No?" Tom said questioningly. "Well, then, don't be so much on your
dignity. Wait a few minutes, and by-and-by we'll all go home
together. Here come the girls. Where is Gerald, I wonder!"

Angel looked around for her brother, but he was nowhere within sight;
she concluded he would return presently.

"So you're back," Dinah remarked to Tom. "What a chase we've had
after you! We gave you too much start. Oh, there's Angel. We lost her
altogether."

"I couldn't keep up," Angel exclaimed. "Is Gerald coming?"

"No; he has gone home."

"Gone home?" echoed a chorus of voices.

"Yes," Dinah nodded. "We followed Tom ever so far, and then, when
Gerald found there was no chance of our catching him, he said
he shouldn't play any longer, and it wasn't worth while to come all
the way back here to fetch his fishing-rod; so he asked me to tell
Angel to carry it back to Haresdown House for him."

"I am sure I wouldn't do any such thing!" Gilbert exclaimed.
"The idea of his being like that!"

"Oh, I don't mind," Angel interposed hurriedly.

"I wonder you let him order you about like that," Tom cried.

The children gathered their belongings together and started for home,
Angel with an uneasy sense that her companions disapproved of her
brother's behaviour. She did not attempt to make excuses for him;
he had acted as he usually did, and studied himself. On reaching the
road which led to the town over the bridge one way, and to Haresdown
House the other, Tom declared his intention of accompanying Angel
home, and carrying Gerald's rod and her basket of flowers for her.
It was in vain for her to protest there was no necessity for him
to do so; he was persistent, so she had perforce to say good-bye
to the others, and allow Tom to go up the hill with her.

When they arrived at Haresdown House they found Gerald at the front
gate watching for his sister's return.

"What, you, Tom!" he cried in accents of surprise.

"Yes, me," Tom responded ungrammatically, as he transferred the
fishing-rod and basket into the little girl's hands. "I've brought
Angel home because you skulked away and left her," and his blue eyes
flashed indignantly as he spoke. "I wouldn't treat either of my
sisters so shabbily, nor would Gilbert!"

Gerald looked considerably taken aback, but Tom waited for no reply.
Shouting back "good-bye," he turned on his heel and ran off down the
hill.

CHAPTER XIV

The Fate of the Robins

"WHO is going to market with me?" Mr. Bailey inquired as he entered
the dining-room at Haresdown House, where Angel and Gerald were
holding an animated conversation. "Mrs. Vallance has given me
a number of commissions to execute for her, so I shall take the
carriage, and bring home my purchases. I thought a drive would do
your father good, but it appears he is expecting Gilbert Mickle here
this morning. You can both come with me if you like."

"Oh, thank you, Uncle Edward," they replied; but Gerald added,
"I promised to meet Reginald Hope this morning; however, that doesn't
matter. I would much rather go to market. I can see Hope any day."

"Nevertheless, if you have made an appointment with him you had
better keep it," Mr. Bailey said gravely. "I never encourage any one
to break his word."

Gerald's face fell. Ten minutes later he watched his sister and uncle
drive off in the pony-carriage-with a decidedly envious heart, and
stood at the front gate gazing disconsolately down the hill until he
saw Gilbert Mickle appear in sight. If the lame boy had not observed
him, he would have retreated; but Gilbert, apparently guessing his
intention, frustrated it by shouting to him to wait. Now Gerald had a
reason of his own for not desiring to encounter Gilbert, and his
countenance expressed decided uneasiness as he opened the gate
for the other to enter.

"Look here," said Gilbert, fixing a stern, accusing gaze on the
younger boy's face, "how dared you interfere with that robin's nest?"

"I didn't!" Gerald cried quickly. "I never touched it!"

Gilbert's eyes flashed ominously, and he restrained his rising anger
with an effort as he replied—

"Then you must have meddled with the young ones. I know you must
have, though no one saw you. What a young idiot Tom must have been
to show you the nest! How dared you touch the birds—you—you
meddlesome imp?"

"I didn't do any harm," Gerald said sulkily; "and you've no right
to speak to me like that, and call me names. I won't stand it.
I suppose you think you can bully me as you like, just because you're
older than I am? Besides, I didn't hurt the young birds; I only took
them out of the nest to look at them, and I put them back again
as gently as possible."

"You killed them!" Gilbert declared indignantly.

"I didn't!" Gerald retorted hotly. "How can you tell such a big lie?
I'm not going to stand here and let you talk to me like this. I never
hurt the young birds, I tell you, and you're very wicked to say
I did. Tom never told you so, I'm sure."

"No, Tom did not see you touch them; but he remembers you went back
to look at them again when he was at the other side of the garden.
Perhaps you didn't mean to hurt them," Gilbert proceeded, "but you
killed them nevertheless. Surely you must know that if birds are
taken from their nest they never settle in properly again? This
morning, when Dora went to look at the young robins, she found them
all dead on the ground, having fallen out of the nest. So you see,
indirectly, you did kill them."

Gerald looked really shocked, for he had had no intention of doing
harm when his curiosity had prompted him to take the half-fledged
birds out of their nursery; he had promised Tom not to touch them,
but he had thought it would never be known he had broken his word.
He now recalled the anxiety the Mickle children had all evinced that
the robins might save their brood, and he was conscious that they
would view his conduct very unfavourably.

"I am so sorry," he said in a low voice. "I never meant to hurt them—
truly, I did not. I would not have taken them out of the nest if I
had known what would happen."

"Tom said you solemnly promised not to touch them."

Gerald made no response, but his crimson face plainly expressed that
Tom had spoken the truth.

"What a young storyteller you are!" Gilbert exclaimed contemptuously.
"I could understand your interfering with the robins if you had not
given your word not to do so, because you did not know the mischief
you were doing; but it was so fearfully dishonourable to deliberately
break your promise in that way."

Gerald felt bitterly ashamed of himself at that moment, but he
considered the lame boy was taking too much upon himself in speaking
to him in such scornful, reproving tones.

"I believe your father would be awfully mad with you if he knew how
you have behaved," Gilbert proceeded, "and Mr. Bailey too. I—"

"Oh!" Gerald interrupted in an alarmed voice, "you won't tell them,
will you? You can't mean to get me into a row! Father would be so
angry if he knew. He isn't often angry with me, but when he is put
out, he can be awfully stern."

"I won't tell. I'm not a sneak, I hope."

"I am so very sorry I touched the birds," Gerald said earnestly,
"I am indeed. Do believe me."

Gilbert looked searchingly at his companion's disturbed countenance,
and met a decidedly ashamed look in the bright blue eyes, which
assured him that Gerald was, at any rate, now speaking the truth.
He hastened to reply—

"I do believe you. No one guessed why the young birds fell out of
their nest except Tom and me, and now I know how it was I promise you
I will not tell any one but Tom. Dora was awfully upset when she
found the young birds dead, and Dinah was sorry too, but they neither
of them imagined how it happened, and Tom won't let them know if I
persuade him not to. I say, don't meddle with birds' nests again."

"All right, I won't," Gerald answered gratefully. "It's awfully kind
of you not to want to get me into a row. You won't tell Angel,
will you?"

"No, but the girls are sure to speak to her about the birds. I do
wish you hadn't touched them."

"I wish I hadn't."

"Is Mr. Willis in?" Gilbert inquired after a short pause.

"Yes, he's in the studio, expecting you. Shall I tell him
you're here?"

"Oh no, thank you. I won't trouble you to go back to the house.
I've only brought some of my sketches to show your father;
they wouldn't interest you."

The lame boy, sensitive on the subject of his work, had no desire
to exhibit it to Gerald. "You were going out, weren't you?" he asked.

"Yes, presently; I'm going to meet Reginald Hope."

"Reginald Hope!" Gilbert echoed in a surprised tone. "I didn't know
you knew him. He goes to the Grammar School, and is in my form."

"Then you know him well?" Gerald questioned eagerly. "He's a jolly
fellow, isn't he?"

"Humph! I dare say he may be in some people's estimation. I never
found him so."

"Don't you like him?"

"No."

"Perhaps he doesn't like you?" Gerald suggested, with a knowing
smile.

"Very likely not."

"I wish you'd tell me why you don't like him."

 Gilbert looked at his companion, and hesitated a moment before
replying—

"I don't know why I should give you my reasons for disliking Hope.
You may go and tell him what I say; but there, I don't care if you
do! I dislike and mistrust him because he's not straight."

"Not straight? What do you mean?"

"He is untruthful; he uses bad language; and he bets. Have you seen
much of him?"

"No, I have only met him a few times. I liked him—rather."

"I wouldn't have much to do with him if I were you. I don't think
he's the sort of fellow your father would like. I shouldn't care
for Tom to be very friendly with him. I don't call him a gentleman."

"His father is a doctor, isn't he?"

"Yes, and Reginald is his only son. Dr. Hope is very popular
in Wreyford, and he's a very good sort of man, but he lets Reginald
have his own way in everything."

Gerald would have liked to ask more questions about the boy whose
companionship he found so fascinating, but Gilbert moved away towards
the house, thus bringing the conversation to an end.

Meanwhile, Mr. Bailey and Angel had reached the market, and were
busily engaged in making their purchases. It was an amusement to the
little girl to hear the market-women and hucksters gossiping with
each other, and she lingered around the stalls, listening to the
bargaining going on between vendors and purchasers. Mr. Bailey had
bought some poultry, and was turning his attention to dairy produce,
when Angel felt a light touch on her arm, and turned to find Dora
Mickle at her side.

"I'm with mother," Dora explained; and glancing around Angel saw Mrs.
Mickle standing before a stall a few yards distant. "I was looking
out for you, Angel, because I have something to tell you."

"What is it?" Angel asked a trifle anxiously, noticing with dismay
that Dora's blue eyes were full of unshed tears.

"The young robins are dead."

"Dead! Oh, how dreadful! What killed them?"

"I don't know," Dora replied, shaking her head mournfully; "it
couldn't have been a cat or a rat, because then the birds would have
been taken away. This morning I went out to have a peep at them, and
they had fallen out of the nest, and were lying dead on the ground.
The mother was weeping close by. Oh, it made my heart ache to listen
to her! Isn't it sad?"

"Yes, indeed it is," Angel agreed, her own eyes slightly moist as she
thought of the poor mother-bird's grief. "Oh, I am sorry! Gerald was
telling me about the young robins this morning. Tom showed them
to him yesterday, you know. They were half-fledged, were they not?"

"Yes, in a few days more they would have flown. Father thinks
some one must have interfered with them, but who would do that?
Come and speak to mother now."

Mrs. Mickle, having finished her purchases, turned to shake hands
with Mr. Bailey and his little niece, remarking as she did so to the
former—

"I believe Gilbert has gone to Haresdown House this morning to show
some of his sketches to Mr. Willis. It is very kind of your nephew
to take an interest in my boy. Gilbert makes so few friends."

"But those he makes he keeps, I expect, does he not?" Mr. Bailey
asked. "I thought so," he continued, as she assented with a smile;
"his friendship is accordingly worth having. He and my nephew seem
to get on together; they have tastes in common, no doubt."

"Although Gilbert has known Mr. Willis so short a while, he has
formed a very high opinion of him," Mrs. Mickle said earnestly;
"but I hope he will not be too constant a visitor at Haresdown House
for I fear your nephew may find his society irksome. Gilbert is not
always a very genial companion."

"I defy any one to be ungenial with John!"

Mrs. Mickle laughed. She had found the artist, on the few occasions
on which she had met him, most entertaining, and she did not wonder
that his sunny disposition, which now that his health was better,
asserted itself again, was a great attraction to her elder son.

A short while longer she stood talking to Mr. Bailey, whilst Angel
and Dora continued their conversation about the robins, discussing by
what means the birds could have met their deaths; and then they all
left the market, and Mrs. Mickle and Dora went home, leaving Angel
and her uncle to pack their purchases into the pony-carriage
preparatory to making a start. Just as they were ready to leave,
Miss Goodwin came up, and Mr. Bailey insisted on driving her
to Myrtle Villa.

"I accept your kind offer most gladly," the old lady said, as she was
assisted into the seat by Mr. Bailey, and Angel took her place
opposite, with her back to the pony, "for I find these spring days
trying, and my basket is heavy. I always do my own marketing;
such has been my custom for—I forget how many years."

She was childishly delighted at the unexpected pleasure of a drive,
and chatted gaily as they drove down the main street, enumerating to
her companions the various articles her basket contained, and bowing
impressively to the few acquaintances they met on the road.
She sighed regretfully when, after passing over the bridge, in a few
minutes more Myrtle Villa was reached, but brightened perceptibly
when Mr. Bailey suggested taking her for a drive on another day.

"Really?" she asked, as having helped her to alight he took his seat
again. "Oh, that will be delightful!" and her blue eyes shone with
pleasure. "Wait a moment! I must give you some of my lilies of the
valley; they are now in full bloom."

She entered her garden, hastened to a sheltered corner shaded by a
purple lilac tree, and gathered a great bunch of sweet-scented
flowers, which, returning, she laid in Angel's lap, smiling happily
as she listened to the little girl's exclamations of admiration and
thanks; then Pixy started afresh, whilst the old lady stood in her
gateway till the pony-carriage was out of sight.

Arrived at home, Angel hastened to the studio in search of her
father, to give him a share of her flowers; she found Gilbert Mickle
on the point of leaving, and was surprised at the brightness of his
face. The boy was in an unusually happy frame of mind, Mr. Willis
having found great merit in his sketches.

"Only think, Angel," Mr. Willis said to his little daughter after
Gilbert had gone, "he is quite self-taught. He never took a drawing
lesson in his life. He has real talent, and I have been telling him
that if his father will permit it, I will gladly give him some
lessons; he would be a promising pupil. What are you looking
so thoughtful about, my dear?"

"I was thinking what a disappointment it must be to you, father,
that I have no talent for drawing," she responded gravely; "you were
so pleased with those freehand drawings Gerald did at school."

"Naturally I was. We shall see what you do at school; if you cannot
learn to draw, there are plenty of other things you can master, I am
sure."

"Oh yes," Angel agreed, her face brightening. "It will be delightful
to go to school. Only a week longer to wait. Dinah and Dora Mickle
say they will be sorry when the holidays are over, but I shall be
so glad. Gerald hasn't returned yet, has he, father?"

"I have not seen him since you left."

When Gerald strolled into the house a half-hour later, he was in a
thoughtful mood. He listened inattentively to the account his sister
gave him of how she had spent the morning, and offered no confidences
in return.

"Wasn't it dreadful about the little birds?" Angel said, after she
had repeated Dora's story of the tragedy.

"Oh, bother the birds!" he cried irritably. "What a fuss every one
makes about them! First Gilbert, and now you—"

He paused, noticing Angel's look of astonishment. It was not that he
was not sorry the birds were dead, but his feeling of guilt made him
hate to hear of them. He turned impatiently away, muttering under his
breath that girls were too soft-hearted for anything, and Gilbert
Mickle was just as bad.

CHAPTER XV

Commencing the Summer Term

THE first day of his school life at the Wreyford Grammar School was
an unusual experience for Gerald Willis. He found himself in the same
form as Tom Mickle, and discovered he need have no fears of being
beaten by him in his work, for Tom, though a bright, sharp boy, was
rather given to idling, and at the present time his mind was far more
interested in sports than in his scholastic duties, which it must be
confessed he somewhat neglected, and considered of quite secondary
importance to football and cricket. It gratified Gerald to find he
satisfied the form master as to his knowledge; therefore, he was in a
decidedly complacent state of mind when, on the first day of the
summer term, he found himself in the playground for the twenty
minutes' break' in the middle of the morning. Then it was
he discovered how different were many of the boys to those he had had
for companions at the private school which he had attended in London.
The latter had been all the sons of gentlemen, consequently Gerald
was far from pleased when a big lad called Rabjohns, whom he knew
to be the son of a Wreyford butcher, caught him by the collar and put
him through a catechism as to who he was, what he was called, where
he lived, and so on. Gerald felt vastly indignant at being questioned
by this youth, and would dearly have liked to have told him to mind
his own business, but the other boy was too big and strong to pick
a quarrel with, so he wisely answered all his questions, though with
no good grace.

"So you live at Haresdown House," said Rabjohns, still grasping him
by the collar at arm's length, and surveying him from head to heels.
"You're a relation of that old Australian chap, I suppose, who's
bought the place? I know him by sight—drives a smart little turn-out,
doesn't he, and generally has a little girl with him?"

"Yes—my sister."

"You haven't become chummy with any of the Grammar School boys yet,
eh?"

"I know Gilbert and Tom Mickle, and Reginald Hope."

"Oh, the Mickles are well enough," Rabjohns allowed condescendingly;
"certainly Gilbert's rather too high and mighty for my taste, but
he's a clever chap, and keeps up the standard of the school
for learning. Tom's a mischievous monkey, but he's a plucky
youngster, and one of our shining lights in the football field. As to
Reginald Hope—well, he's not likely to have much to say to a kid
like you, and the less the better. There, you can go!" And the big
boy gave Gerald a playful shake, dropped his hold of him with a
good-tempered laugh.

Gerald was highly indignant. It was insufferable to be so spoken
to and treated by the son of the man who supplied his uncle with
meat. He wondered if Rabjohns knew that Mr. Bailey was one of his
father's customers; he hardly thought it possible he could be aware
of the fact. Whilst he was still looking angry and red in the face,
he saw Gilbert Mickle at a little distance, leaning on his crutches,
watching him with evident amusement. Gerald felt humiliated at the
sight of the sarcastic smile on Gilbert's lips, but he could not
resist the temptation of speaking to some one he knew, so he strolled
up to the lame boy and commenced a conversation.

"I'm in the same form as Tom," he informed Gilbert.

"Are you?" Gilbert said, apparently not interested. "How do you like
Rabjohns?" he asked, after a slight pause.

"I don't like him at all. I think he's an impertinent cad."

"Oh no! He's not a bad sort—one of the rough-and-ready kind,
you know. He's all right, in his way—though it may not be your way
or mine—and so's Higgs. That's Higgs talking to Rabjohns now."

"I see. Who's he?"

"The son of Higgs the stationer."

"Are most of the boys shopkeepers' sons?"

"A great many of them are. This is a public school, and open
to any one. You'll soon find your proper level here."

Gerald did not quite understand what his companion meant, but somehow
the remark did not please him.

"I advise you to keep in with Rabjohns," Gilbert proceeded
carelessly; "he's one of the biggest boys in the school, and it's
better for a youngster like you to have him for a friend than not."

Gerald, who had no intention of being on friendly terms with a
butcher's son, made no reply. At that moment Reginald Hope passed by,
and Gerald called to him eagerly.

"Oh, Hope! Wait a minute!"

But Hope, though he certainly must have heard, elected not to stop,
and hurried on without so much as a glance in Gerald's direction, and
joined a group of boys about his own age.

"He's like that," Gilbert remarked in what he meant to be a kindly
tone, for he was really sorry for his companion's mortification;
"he doesn't want you now he's got his old companions. He found it all
very well to knock about with you in the holidays when he'd no one
else to chum with, but it's different now. Those fellows he's talking
to are boarders. If I were you—"

Gerald waited to hear no more; he turned abruptly away, not desirous
of listening to unpalatable truths; but after school hours, when he
was hurrying down the street on his way home to dinner, Reginald Hope
overtook him and walked by his side.

"I say, Willis, I wouldn't stop to talk to you in the playground
because I can't stand Gilbert Mickle," Hope said apologetically;
"you understand?"

Gerald's face cleared; he felt he had been unjust to his friend.
Of course Hope did not like Gilbert. He might have known that was his
reason for passing without a word. The lame boy was not a favourite
with any one.

"Oh, it's all right!" Gerald answered, thinking that it had been mean
of Gilbert to try to put him against Hope. "I don't care for Gilbert
Mickle myself; he's so spiteful."

"Was he spiteful about me? Oh, well, you needn't say; I can see by
your face he was. But, never mind about him, now. How do you think
you will like the Grammar School?"

"I hardly know. I haven't made friends with any of the boys yet.
I only know you, and the Mickles. Rabjohns spoke to me."

"Oh, he's nobody! His father's a butcher, you know. If he was a lord,
Rabjohns couldn't think more of himself. I say, Willis, how much
pocket-money are you to have a week?"

Gerald told him. It was a generous allowance for a boy of his age,
for his father had lately raised the amount; but Hope appeared
to consider it quite inadequate.

"Is that all?" the latter exclaimed. "Why, I get twice as much, and
even on that I should have to be awfully close and mean if I did not
increase it. You'll have to do as I do, and stretch your money
a bit."

"I wish I could, but I don't know how to do that," Gerald said,
laughing.

"Oh, I can easily tell you," the other replied seriously.

Whereupon followed a private and confidential conversation, carried
on in low tones, until Gerald suddenly remembered that he must not
dawdle any longer if he meant to be at Haresdown House
by dinner-time.

"I must go," he declared hurriedly, "or I shall keep dinner waiting,
and Uncle Edward hates any one to be unpunctual. I'll see you again
after school this afternoon."

"Very well. Think over what I've said, and don't be a fool to your
own interests. Good-bye!"

Reginald Hope turned on his heel and retraced his footsteps, whilst
Gerald ran off homewards. He soon left the town behind him, and
reached the bridge over the Wrey, where he paused a moment to take
breath; then hurried on past Miss Goodwin's pretty villa, and up the
hill. Angel was waiting for him at the gate to tell how she had fared
that morning, for she had been to school for the first time to-day,
and was longing to recount her new experiences. But he scarcely
listened to her eager tale, and she was in consequence not a little
disappointed.

It was the same in the evening, when, her lessons prepared for the
following day, she would have been so very glad of a confidant.
Gerald, as soon as he had finished his work, which he had done after
many grumbles because his sister was no longer allowed to assist him,
went out to join Reginald Hope, thus destroying her hopes of a chat
with him that night. She saw very little of her brother nowadays, and
sometimes it almost seemed to her that he loved her less than he
used to. In the old time, in the dingy London lodgings, though he had
always domineered over her, he had been generally affectionate and
kind; now he was often impatient, and vexed with her when she could
not see everything in the same light as he did; and he resented
the fact that she did not help him with his lessons, quite unmindful
that it was their father who had set his veto against her doing so.

Mr. Willis was in his studio, busy over some illustrations for an
order he had received by post that day; and knowing it would not do
to disturb him, Angel put on her hat and strolled out to her own
patch of garden, where she stood meditatively regarding the plants
she had potted out a few days previously. She was thinking of her
brother, and wondering why, though he had the same home and
advantages as herself and the same reasons for happiness, he was not
as contented as she was. He grumbled as much or more now than he had
done in their London lodgings. Then he had bewailed their poverty;
now, though he had plenty of the blessings of life, he still wished
for more. Only that morning he had borrowed money from his sister,
as he had been in the habit of doing lately—money which she knew
he never meant to return; and whilst he kept her poor, he yet
appeared never to have enough for himself. She was certain her father
would be greatly displeased if he was aware of this; and at the same
time she dreaded his knowing it, and yet realized that he ought
to know. But she could not tell tales of Gerald! She had grown up
to hide his faults, and make much of his good qualities, not wisely,
of course, but with the sincere desire of shielding him from all
unpleasantness because he was younger than she was, and the affection
she bore him was a deep, protecting love. Besides, she had promised
her mother to be good to Gerald, and she was trying to keep her word
according to her own idea of what being good to him meant. Presently
Mr. Bailey entered the garden, and interrupted her troubled
meditation by calling to her to come and see how the apple blossom
had opened during the last few days. She followed him into the
orchard where the gnarled boughs of the old apple trees, so brown and
bare a short while ago, were now one mass of pink and white bloom;
and listened with the ready attention which always pleased her uncle
whilst he pointed out the different spots where he intended planting
new trees in the fall of the year.

"Not but what the old trees will last my time," he told her
smilingly, "but one must look ahead, and not live for self alone.
Ah, I knew these trees as saplings, for my father planted this
orchard, and I've not forgotten the taste of the fruit, or the names
of the different apples I used to fancy when I was a boy.
Butter-boxes! Quarantines! Barter's beauties! Ah, my dear,
your grandfather and I knew the best sorts for eating, and I've no
doubt you and Gerald will gain the same knowledge when autumn comes."

She thought it very possible. There was a rustic seat in one corner
of the orchard upon which they sat down, whilst he turned the
conversation to the subject of school, and inquired how she had done
that morning; whereupon she told him that she was not as far behind
other girls of her age in general knowledge as she had feared
she would be, which happy state of affairs she put down to her having
always assisted Gerald with his home lessons.

"I know I shall like it at school," she said earnestly, "and I mean
to learn all I can. Dinah Mickle is such a kind girl; she has
introduced me to several of her friends, and she has promised to help
me about anything I do not understand."

"That is certainly very kind of her," Mr. Mickle agreed; "a helping
hand is of great value sometimes. I am glad you like the Mickle
children. Do you know it is settled that Gilbert is to take drawing
and painting lessons from your father? Mr. Mickle called here this
afternoon, and the matter was arranged. Your father wanted to give
Gilbert the lessons, but Mr. Mickle objected to that, and insisted
on paying, which, as a business man, I think quite right. So the lad
is to come every Saturday afternoon for a couple of hours. Do you
favour the idea?"

"Oh yes, Uncle Edward, if you and father do. Oh, don't you think
father is ever so much better?"

"Yes, thank God! I have an idea it may turn-out that illness of his
was for the best after all. It was a sad disappointment about his
picture; but when Providence interposes and prevents our carrying out
the work we had intended, I think we may rest assured that there's a
wiser hand than ours guiding our affairs. What do you say, my dear?"

"I am sure you are right, Uncle Edward. Mother used to talk to me
like that, and say we must have faith in God, even when we can't see
the reason for what He does."

"And that happens so often, doesn't it, child? But God's sight
is clear where ours is dim; and if He denies us something on which
we have set our hearts, often it is to give us a greater blessing
still. He knows best, that's certain. 'We walk by faith, and not
by sight,' you know."

That night, when Angel pulled up her bedroom blind before getting
into bed, she uttered an exclamation of delight. Her room was at the
back of the house, overlooking the kitchen garden and orchard.
The young May moon had arisen, and by its soft light the little girl
could see the shadowy old grey church on the hill, and the stretch
of green, flower-decked meadows which lay between it and Haresdown
House.

"How lovely! oh, how lovely!" she exclaimed. "And, oh, how beautiful
the orchard looks! No wonder uncle loves the place so much."

Her heart was full of affection and gratitude towards Mr. Bailey
for his goodness to her and those she loved. That her father fully
appreciated his generosity and kindness she well knew, but she was
not so sure about Gerald. The latter took everything as a matter
of course; indeed, since they had come to Wreyford she had had many
occasions to notice her brother's selfishness, and had begun
to contrast his behaviour to her to the manner in which the Mickle
boys treated their sisters—even with Gilbert it was always
"girls first." Then she reproached herself for doubting her brother's
affection, and jumped into bed with the determination to worry about
him no longer. No doubt he was right when he said boys had more need
of money than girls; but, nevertheless, she could not blind herself
to the fact that Gerald was acquiring the habit of spending beyond
his means. The more money he had, the more money he wanted.

CHAPTER XVI

Gilbert's Suspicions

THE first few weeks of the summer term passed swiftly and happily
for Angel; she became a favourite with governesses and pupils, but
still Dinah and Dora Mickle were her chief friends, and she generally
spent Saturday afternoons in their company, taking long walks and
coming home laden with flowers and ferns.

How beautiful were the shady lanes around Wreyford in those early
summer days, when the foliage still retained the freshness of spring.
The green corn in the fields was growing apace, honeysuckle and wild
roses were bursting into bloom, and the grass in the meadows waved
in the breeze, almost ready to be mowed.

Gilbert Mickle was making good progress with his drawing. He looked
forward to the afternoons spent in the artist's company as the
happiest in the week, and felt sincerely grateful to his father
for allowing him to receive the lessons which he so greatly valued.
As a rule, only Mr. Willis and Gilbert were in the studio on Saturday
afternoons; but if it happened to be wet, sometimes Angel would
venture to join them, and sit by the window as quiet as a mouse
with her book or work, never uttering a word unless she was spoken
to. Mr. Willis and Gilbert often conversed as they worked. Their talk
was frequently beyond Angel's understanding, for they would discuss
subjects about which the little girl was ignorant; on such occasions
Gilbert's face would brighten, and his tongue become fluent,
his mantle of reserve would drop from him, and he would appear at his
best. He was growing much attached to Mr. Willis, attracted by his
genial disposition and his never-failing tact.

One afternoon he was returning from Haresdown House when he
encountered Angel at the foot of the hill, and stopped to inquire
if she had been with his sisters.

"No," she replied; "they told me they were going shopping with your
mother. I've been to deliver a note for Uncle Edward in the town.
He asked Gerald to take it; but Gerald wanted to play cricket,
and so—"

"But Gerald is not playing cricket," he broke in; "at least, I think
not."

"Oh yes," Angel assured him. "He told me he was going to practise
bowling at the nets."

Gilbert looked incredulous, for he had his own reasons for doubting
this statement, as on his way to Haresdown House that afternoon
he had caught sight of Gerald and Reginald Hope, with their fishing
rods, walking in the opposite direction to the field where the
Grammar School boys played cricket. He had imagined they were bound
for the clay pits to fish, as they were going that way.

"What makes you think Gerald is not playing cricket?" Angel asked,
a trifle anxiously, after a brief pause, adding, "He wouldn't tell me
a story about it. He would have taken Uncle Edward's note himself
if he hadn't wanted to play cricket."

"I—I suppose so."

"You suppose so? You don't think he'd tell me a story, do you?"

Gilbert made no answer. Angel looked puzzled and a little hurt.

"Well, good-bye," she said stiffly, casting a reproachful glance
at him; "I mustn't stay talking any longer, for it's nearly teatime."

"Good-bye," he answered, and stood leaning on his crutches, gazing
after her as she commenced to climb the hill, wondering what could
have induced her brother to tell her a deliberate untruth, for that
Gerald had done so he was certain in his own mind. He turned towards
Wreyford, and, after crossing the bridge, was very soon in the main
street. Within sight of his own home he met Gerald Willis himself,
and stopped him.

"Hulloa, Willis!" he cried. "What sport, then?"

"What do you mean?" Gerald asked, growing crimson. "I don't
understand you."

"Oh, yes, you do! I saw you with you and Hope with your fishing rods,
and I perceive from the white clay on your boots where you have been.
You've been fishing in the clay pits, haven't you?"

"Y—es," Gerald answered hesitatingly. "Hope has a new aquarium, and
he asked me to go with him and catch some fish to put in it—those in
the clay pits are just the size and sort he wants. We didn't have
much sport this afternoon, though; we shall have to go again."

"What have you done with your rod?" Gilbert questioned curiously.

"Oh, I left it at Hope's house."

"Because you didn't want your sister to see you return with it,
I suppose," the other remarked with a slight sneer. "What made you
tell her a lie, and say you were going to play cricket?"

"Oh, I say, I wish you'd mind your own business," Gerald cried hotly.
"Why need you interfere? It's nothing to do with you. You've no right
to say I told a lie."

"But you did!" Gilbert declared in cold accents of disgust.

Gerald's eyes fell beneath the other's accusing glance. For a minute
the lame boy hesitated whether to continue the conversation or not;
then he said—

"Of course, it's nothing to do with me, really; but it's so—so
dishonourable to wilfully mislead any one. Your sister told me you
had gone to the cricket-field—I knew you had not. I was—"

"Did you tell her so?" Gerald interrupted in dismay.

"No."

"That's all right, then. It doesn't do to let girls know everything,
and Angel's awfully curious."

"Why didn't you tell her the truth? There was no harm in your going
fishing."

Gerald was silent He had no intention of acknowledging that the
neighbourhood of the clay pits was forbidden ground to him.

"I know Reginald Hope thinks lightly of honour and truthfulness,"
Gilbert proceeded, "but I'm surprised you should let him influence
you. I say, Willis, if I were you I'd knock off being so friendly
with him, I would indeed. No good will come of your intercourse
with him, I feel sure of that. I believe he has you under his thumb
already."

"You mind your own business!" Gerald retorted rudely. "Hope's a great
friend of mine, and I'm not going to stand here and listen to you
running out against him. You're jealous of him, that's what you are,
because he's so much more popular at school than you are yourself."

The passionate colour flamed to Gilbert's face, but he calmed his
temper with an effort as he responded with unusual gentleness and
forbearance—

"You're making a mistake, Willis, and you'll find it out some day."

Gerald uttered a wrathful ejaculation, and turning on his heel walked
off with his head held very high, and his heart full of feelings
of resentment and anger. How he hated Gilbert Mickle for his
interference. No thought of his sin in wilfully deceiving his sister
entered his mind; no sense of the wickedness of disobedience troubled
him. His conscience had pricked him when he had first begun
to deviate from the straight path of truth; but by slow degrees
it had been successfully silenced, and now it only troubled him
occasionally.

Gilbert Mickle returned home in any thing but a tranquil frame
of mind. He felt certain that Gerald's acquaintance with Reginald
Hope was leading him into evil ways, and he knew that Gerald's
relations were utterly unconscious of the fact. Ought he to tell
them? That was the question which troubled him and brought a cloud
of anxiety to his face. Indecision is always painful; and Mrs.
Mickle, who was alone in the sitting-room on his return, was much
struck by the troubled expression on his countenance. He generally
came home in good spirits from Haresdown House. She told him she had
been shopping with his sisters, and then inquired how he had got
on with his drawing lesson that afternoon.

"Very well, mother," he replied. "I enjoyed it as I always do; and
Mr. Willis says I am making good progress."

"But something is amiss! What has gone wrong? Nothing about Tom,
I hope?"

"Oh, no, no! It's nothing to do with us, really, but—well, you know,
mother, I don't usually interfere with other people's business, but I
like Mr. Willis and Mr. Bailey so much, and the girls are fond
of Angel—in short, it's about Gerald I'm bothered. I believe if he
isn't stopped he'll be ruined."

"What do you mean, Gilbert? Ruined? How?"

He proceeded to explain at some length how Gerald's spare time
was spent mostly in the company of Reginald Hope and his friends;
and how Gerald had deliberately lied to his sister that afternoon,
to all of which Mrs. Mickle listened in dismayed silence.

"What makes you have such a bad opinion of Reginald Hope?" she asked,
when her son had finished his tale. "Of course, I know his father
indulges him, and allows him to have his own way; but is there any
real harm in him?"

"He will tell any lie if it suits his purpose, and he has such
a plausible tongue that he would easily dupe a youngster like Willis.
Then, he bets and gambles."

"Bets! gambles!" Mrs. Mickle echoed in accents of intense
astonishment. "Impossible! You must be mistaken, Gilbert, surely."

"No, mother, I'm not. Tom knows it too. A great deal of betting and
gambling goes on amongst a certain set of the Grammar School boys
on the sly; and I believe Hope is one of the ringleaders. I can't
prove it, but I know it's true, nevertheless. There would be an awful
row if it was found out."

"Oh, Gilbert, you surprise and distress me. The masters cannot be
aware of anything of the kind?"

"No, no! It's all done secretly. That's why it's so difficult
to speak out. I couldn't charge Hope with betting, although I'm
certain he does. I'm so afraid he will induce young Willis to bet
too, if he hasn't done it already."

"Oh, do you think it's possible he has?"

The boy shook his head doubtfully.

He knew Gerald Willis had been short of money lately, and that he had
tried to borrow from Tom, who, however, had not been in the position
to lend, having spent his week's allowance. Tom was not as friendly
with Gerald now as he had been during the Easter holidays, for the
former was devoted to cricket, and the latter generally found other
amusements.

"Dear, dear!" Mrs. Mickle exclaimed, shaking her head sorrowfully;
"I am very grieved to hear such a report of Gerald Willis. You have
warned him against Reginald Hope, you say, and he would not listen
to you? I am sorry for that."

"Perhaps I didn't go the right way about it," Gilbert admitted.
"I dare say I bungled."

"How would it be to speak to his father?"

"Oh no, mother! That would be too presumptuous. I don't see I can do
anything more at present, at any rate. I believe, Mr. Willis is the
sort of man who would never think of suspecting evil of any one;
I have not the least doubt but that he considers Gerald perfectly
truthful and honourable; and Angel is so fond of her brother, that
I'm sure it would take a great deal to make her think any harm
of him."

"And yet the girls say he puts upon her in many ways," Mrs. Mickle
said reflectively, "but I can understand how that has come about.
She has always made his happiness her first thought; she told me
she promised her dead mother to be loving and patient with him. Angel
is a dear, good child."

"Gerald is very selfish," Gilbert remarked. "I've often noticed how
he manages to get everything he wants when I've been at Haresdown
House, and wondered that Mr. Willis hasn't noticed it too. I believe
Mr. Bailey sees it."

"It's a good thing if he does. Well, Gilbert, I do not see that you
can interfere further in this matter; you have done all you can
by warning Gerald against Reginald Hope, which I consider you were
right in doing, though I have no doubt your intention was
misconstrued."

"Yes; Gerald considers I am jealous of Hope; in fact, he said so.
That's not true."

"No, dear, of course it's not." Mrs. Mickle crossed the room to her
son's side, and leaning over the back of the chair on which he was
seated, pushed back his hair with a gentle hand, and kissed him
on the forehead. "I am so pleased to see you show such kindly
interest in poor Gerald," she said; "you are not the first
well-intentioned person who has been misjudged."

"Oh, mother, I don't mind that! I'm really sorry for Gerald. Suppose
it was our Tom? Besides, Gerald has no mother, and I'm certain if it
wasn't for you I should be a great deal worse than I am in every
way."

"Oh, my dear, don't say that! If you had not me you would still have
your best friend to go to for help and counsel. I may fail you,
but God never will. And don't you think we might ask Him to protect
poor Gerald from evil, and to show him how wrong it is to be
so untruthful? If you can't help the poor misguided boy, we know
Jesus can."

Gilbert made no reply; but he looked up at his mother with the tender
smile which she loved to see, and she was satisfied that Gerald would
be remembered in his prayers. No one realized better than Mrs. Willis
how much of Gilbert's temper was the result of a peculiarly sensitive
disposition; and that he held himself aloof from boys of his own age
simply from fear of ridicule. He had always protested that he took
little interest in other people, but that had been a pretence, as his
mother had imagined; and she was certain now that had been the case,
for he was as anxious to save Gerald Willis from the toils of evil
companions as though he was his own brother, and would have done
a great deal to serve him for his own sake, as well as for the sake
of his relations.

Mrs. Mickle had a very tender, sympathetic heart, and she could not
dismiss Gerald and the suspicions Gilbert entertained about him from
her thoughts. If Gilbert's suspicions were correct, surely it was
some one's place to open Mr. Willis' eyes to the state of affairs.
Was it her place? She could not make up her mind. In her perplexity
she consulted her husband, but he seemed unable to advise her, and
pointed out that she had no direct charge to bring against Reginald
Hope.

Mrs. Mickle had almost decided not to interfere in the matter when
the remembrance that the Willis children were motherless caused her
to reflect again, and she finally made up her mind that she would
call at Haresdown House, and let circumstances guide her as to
whether she should broach the subject of Gerald's undesirable
acquaintance or not.

"God will show me what to do, and if I must speak, He will teach me
what to say," she thought; "I will leave the matter in His hands."
And having come to that determination she felt more satisfied.

CHAPTER XVII

At Myrtle Villa

"COME in! Oh, do, pray, come in! Oh, surely you were not going to
pass my house without calling?"

The speaker was Miss Goodwin, who had waylaid Mrs. Mickle outside
Myrtle Villa, on her way to Haresdown House. The old lady was so
persistent in her request that she would "come in and have a chat"
that Mrs. Mickle complied, and followed her into the pretty, rose
scented parlour, the window of which commanded a view of the high
road beyond the sweetbriar hedge that marked the limits of Miss
Goodwin's domain.

"How nice it is to have you here!" Miss Goodwin cried, as she led
her visitor to a comfortable chair, and seated herself close by.
"You come to see me so seldom, and actually to-day you were going
to pass without calling," she added in accents of playful reproach.

"I was going to Haresdown House—" Mrs. Mickle was beginning, when the
other broke in—

"Oh, then I am so glad I stopped you, for you would have had a tiring
walk for nothing! Mr. Bailey and his nephew are not at home. I saw
them drive past here towards the town more than an hour ago, and I am
sure they have not returned. Now, you can remain here with an easy
mind, and have tea with me, can you not?"

"Yes, if you will have me, Miss Goodwin."

"Oh, that will be delightful—delightful!" the little lady exclaimed,
clasping her hands childishly.

"It will be delightful for me," Mrs. Mickle said. "How pleasant and
cool it is here, and how quiet!"

"A little too quiet sometimes," Miss Goodwin remarked, "more
especially in the winter; though, to be sure, seldom a day passes
without a visitor to cheer my solitude; and now that Haresdown House
is occupied again, I can watch the going to and fro between there and
the town. Often Mr. Willis comes in and talks to me; he admires
my garden, you know. And that dear child, Angel, as she passes by,
always looks to see if I am at one of the windows. And I must not
forget to tell you that a few days ago Mr. Bailey took me for a long
drive in his pony-carriage."

"I am certain you enjoyed that!"

"Oh yes! It was a real treat. He is a very careful driver, and such a
kind-hearted, pleasant man!" Miss Goodwin paused momentarily whilst a
slightly puzzled expression crossed her face. "I fancy life
in Australia must age people," she continued thoughtfully, "for it
astonishes me to see how grey Edward Bailey has grown. He looks quite
elderly, does he not? But it cannot be for his age, can it?
I remember him as a boy, you know!"

"I think he has worked hard all his life till quite lately, and now
he is taking a well-earned rest," Mrs. Mickle said gently. "He
appears to have settled down very contentedly at Haresdown House;
he is evidently much attached to his nephew and the children. Does
Gerald Willis come to see you as well as the others, Miss Goodwin?"

"Very seldom. I often have a visit from Gilbert, though. Has he told
you, I wonder, that he is going to paint me a picture? No? He is,
then. Isn't it good of him? What a clever boy he is!"

"Yes," Mrs. Mickle agreed, smiling brightly. "God has given him great
abilities, and I trust he will make the best use of them."

"You, may depend upon it he will. He is not one to let his talents
rust: God bless the lad!" Miss Goodwin exclaimed fervently. "Now,
I will tell you a secret, and it is this. Of all my young friends,
Gilbert is my favourite. Tom is a dear boy, and I'm very fond of him,
but I confess I do not always understand him. He is continually
laughing, and joking, and making fun. But Gilbert is different;
he talks so sensibly, and knows so much about flowers and gardening,
and he never laughs at me."

"Laughs at you? Oh no! Who would do that? Not Tom?"

"Certainly not Tom! But there are those who do. There's Dr. Hope's
son, now! He was whispering and laughing about me when he passed here
yesterday with Gerald Willis. Gerald tried to stop him, but I saw
what was going on. Do you think young Hope is a suitable companion
for Gerald, Mrs. Mickle?"

"I fear he is not. Look, Miss Goodwin; is not that Angel Willis
passing now?"

Miss Goodwin rose from her seat, and going to the window, beckoned
to Angel, who was lingering at the gate, to come in. The little girl
obeyed the mute invitation, and flushed with pleasure and surprise
when she entered the parlour to find Mrs. Mickle there.

"How well you look, my dear!" Mrs. Mickle said as she kissed Angel's
bright face. "Isn't she looking much better than when we first knew
her, Miss Goodwin?"

"Indeed she is!" the old lady answered. "Now, Angel, my dear child,
you need not hurry home, as I know your father and uncle are away.
Sit down and entertain Mrs. Mickle whilst I go and speak to Sarah
about tea. You must stay, Angel, indeed you must!"

Without waiting for a response, Miss Goodwin flitted out of the room;
and the next minute her high, piping voice was heard in the kitchen
in consultation with her servant. The old lady was full of excitement
and importance at having two unexpected visitors; and she was eager
to give them the best she had to offer.

Meanwhile Mrs. Mickle and Angel sat in the parlour in close
conversation. The former after a while mentioned Gerald's name, and
inquired how he liked his companions at the Grammar School, remarking
that she thought Tom did not see much of him nowadays.

"No," Angel answered hesitatingly, a slight shadow crossing her face,
"Gerald is very friendly with Reginald Hope, and I think he spends
most of his spare time with him; but he does not bring him
to Haresdown House."

"How is that, my dear?"

"I—I scarcely know—that is—"

The little girl stopped in confusion. She was strictly truthful;
but she could not tell Mrs. Mickle that she believed Gerald
was afraid his father would not approve of his friendship
with Reginald Hope, and that was the reason why he never invited him
to Haresdown House, although he knew Mr. Bailey liked him
to entertain his friends in his home. This was only what she surmised
to be the real state of the case; she had drawn her own conclusions
from a few incautious remarks her brother had let drop on different
occasions.

"By the way," Mrs. Mickle said presently, "I want to tell you how
dangerous the clay pits are, and advise you to keep away from them.
I know boys often go there fishing, and if one fell in it would be
almost certain death, and so—"

"Oh," Angel interposed, "Uncle Edward has forbidden us to go there.
He told us all about them, how deep they are, and how a man was
drowned in one of them some months ago."

"And yet Gerald does go there!" Mrs. Mickle cried involuntarily,
now comprehending the reason why he had deceived his sister as to his
doings on the preceding Saturday afternoon.

"What do you mean?" Angel asked quickly, her face paling. "Oh, Mrs.
Mickle, surely you must be mistaken Gerald would not disobey Uncle
Edward like that! Why—why—"

She paused, the anxiety and doubt on her expressive countenance
giving place to a look of sad certainty.

"Oh, it is true!" she cried in great distress. "I understand it all
now. That is where Gerald went on Saturday afternoon. Gilbert said
he had not gone to play cricket. I noticed the clay on his boots
when he came home, and—oh, dear, what shall I do? How wrong of him
to disobey Uncle Edward like that, and to tell such a story too!"

"It was very wrong of him," Mrs. Mickle said gravely, "if he was my
son I should punish him severely."

"But father doesn't know—oh!—you won't tell him? Oh, please, don't
tell him!"

"Angel, my dear child, you have no right to shield your brother
as you do. Oh, I mean it! Did it never occur to you that in glossing
over Gerald's faults you yourself are acting a deceptive part? I know
how you love him; and I do not encourage any one to tell tales
of another, as a rule, but there are exceptional cases when it is
right to speak out. Gerald has disobeyed his uncle, and been very
untruthful, I fear; now such behaviour should be stopped, and—"

"I will speak to him! I will make him promise faithfully never to go
near the clay pits again!" Angel cried. "He is so thoughtless! Oh,
Mrs. Mickle, please, please don't say I ought to tell father!
Gerald will be sorry when I point out to him how wicked he has been.
And father would be so grieved! You don't understand how fond and
proud he is of Gerald."

"Oh yes, I think I do! Well, I won't say you ought to tell your
father—that is, if you can be certain you can persuade Gerald to keep
away from the clay pits for the future. Think how terrible it would
be if there was an accident! But, there," she proceeded as Angel gave
a shudder of horror, "we won't contemplate that. Do believe that I
have spoken to you as I have because I care for you very much—you,
and Gerald too. I have a motherly interest in you both."

Angel flung her arms impetuously around her kind friend's neck,
and kissed her with great affection; whilst she whispered—

"I know, I know! You are so good to me! Oh, if only mother had lived!
Oh, Mrs. Mickle, you can't think how much I want her sometimes!"

"Yes, dear, I think I can," was the sympathetic response. "I am sure
you and Gerald must miss her dreadfully."

"You will have such a bad opinion of Gerald now," Angel said, with a
sigh of deep regret. "I'm afraid you won't like him any more."

"There you are mistaken. I think Gerald is a very lovable sort
of boy, but you must not help to spoil him by hiding his faults and
failings, because by doing that you are not acting truly yourself.
It is often very difficult to be quite true where others are
concerned; it is so very easy to blind ourselves to what is
blameworthy in those dear to us. Oh, Angel, pray for Gerald. You love
him very dearly, I know; but think how weak and powerless your love
is compared to the infinite love of Him who died for us all. It is
only by His grace, and by His Holy Spirit in our hearts, that we can
do aright. Ask Jesus to help and guide you in your dealings with your
brother, and He will show you how to act, and what to say."

Angel made no response, for there was a lump in her throat at that
moment which prevented her speaking; but Mrs. Mickle's words,
so gently and kindly uttered, impressed her greatly, and she was
deeply grateful to her for the interest she evinced in Gerald,
although she did not realize that it had been an effort to her
to speak so plainly as she had done.

Presently Miss Goodwin returned, followed by Sarah, who laid a dainty
cloth over the small square table in the centre of the room, upon
which she proceeded to place a big blue jar of lovely gloire de dijon
roses, and sundry little glass dishes filled with different
preserves, which the former had manufactured herself from the fruit
grown in her own garden. Then a plum cake was taken out of a cupboard
in the sideboard, plates of thin bread and butter were put on either
side of the table, Miss Goodwin hovering around, and giving
directions all the while.

It would have struck many people that the old lady was making a good
deal of fuss about casual visitors; but Mrs. Mickle knew how it
delighted her hostess' hospitable heart to have an occasion to use
her silver tea service and her best china tea set, so she sat quietly
watching her move first one thing and then another on the table,
until at last the silver tea urn was brought in, and Sarah declared
the meal ready.

Miss Goodwin, with a guest on each side of her, took the top of the
table; and in listening to her chatter, Angel forgot her troubles
about Gerald for the time, and was amused and interested. Being
really hungry, she made an excellent tea, much to Miss Goodwin's
gratification, for the kind old soul liked to see that her visitors
duly appreciated the good things she was so pleased to put before
them.

Soon after the meal was over, Angel said she thought she ought to go,
as no doubt her father and uncle had returned home by that time, and
they would wonder at her absence. She found an opportunity
to whisper, "I will remember all you said," to Mrs. Mickle before she
left, and received in return an understanding pressure of the hand
and a motherly embrace.

As the little girl slowly pursued her way homewards she pondered over
Gerald's disobedience and the lie he had told her, and grew very low
and depressed. She was not aware that her brother had ever directly
lied to her before, though she knew he had often prevaricated about
different matters.

"It would make father very unhappy if he thought Gerald told
stories," she reflected, "and I don't think he ought to be troubled
now after his having been so ill. I know the doctor told Uncle Edward
father must not be worried. I'll speak to Gerald, and see what he has
to say before I make up my mind what to do. I wish I knew what was
right; I must ask God to show me, as Mrs. Mickle said."

In spite of her desire to shield Gerald all she could, she was very
indignant with him for behaving so deceitfully. Her cheeks burnt
with shame when she remembered how Gilbert had looked at her last
Saturday afternoon, when she had informed him Gerald had gone to the
cricket-field. She had failed to understand his surprise and
hesitation at the time, but now she could understand it all even the
look of embarrassment which had crossed the lame boy's tell-tale
countenance when, in speaking of Gerald, she had said, "You don't
think he'd tell me a story, do you?" Oh, how humiliated she felt!
Of course, Gilbert had known that Gerald had told her a story, but he
had not liked to say so. It was shameful of Gerald to have put her
in such a position.

On reaching Haresdown House she found her father and uncle had come
home, having returned by a circuitous route. Gerald was in the
dining-room preparing his lessons for the morrow; but Angel did not
join him. After explaining to Mr. Willis where she had been, she went
upstairs to her own room and began to learn her lessons there,
not wishing to encounter her brother till she felt more composed.
She shed many bitter tears as she bent over her books, and
consequently it took her a long while to get over her work.

The lessons finished at last, she went to the open window and stood
looking out; but she saw nothing of the fair landscape, for her eyes
were misty, and her mind too preoccupied to concern itself with the
beauties of nature. Presently she heard her brother's voice beneath
the window calling to her.

"I'm going into the orchard, Angel," he said; "will you come too?"

"Yes," she responded quickly. "I'll be with you soon."

"All right!" he shouted back as he strolled away. "Be quick; I want
a talk with you."

The tears had gone from her eyes now; but her heart was throbbing
painfully. She knew the time had come when she must speak to Gerald
of his misdoings; and with a fervent prayer to God for help, she went
soberly downstairs, and a few minutes later joined her brother in the
orchard.

CHAPTER XVIII

In the Orchard

ANGEL found her brother seated upon the rustic seat, on the back
of which he had been cutting his initials. He shut his pocket-knife
as she sat down by his side, and turned his attention to her,
remarking—

"Father says you had tea with Miss Goodwin and Mrs. Mickle at Myrtle
Villa. Didn't you find it rather slow?"

She shook her head, but made no reply in words. Surprised at her
silence, he looked at her scrutinously, and noted the signs of recent
grief upon her countenance.

"You've been crying!" he exclaimed in accents of intense
astonishment, for his sister was not of a tearful disposition as a
rule. "What's the matter? Have you quarrelled with the girls
at school, or—"

"Oh no, no! But I'm very unhappy, Gerald, and—and it's about you!"

"About me!" Gerald's face at first expressed nothing but
bewilderment; then he flushed and began to look somewhat uneasy.
"What me?" he asked. "What have I been doing to make you cry? Why,
we've not been alone together for days. You're talking nonsense."

"I have heard where you were on Saturday afternoon," she said in low,
reproachful tones; "you went to the clay pits fishing, and you told
me that you were going to play cricket with the grammar school boys.
Oh, what made you tell me such a story? And why did you disobey Uncle
Edward?"

For a moment there was dead silence, then Gerald burst out
wrathfully, "I know who told you! It was that sneaking cripple,
Gilbert Mickle! But I'll be even with him yet! Oh, how I hate him!
He's always prying into my business—and interfering with me!
The wretched—"

"Hush, hush!" Angel interrupted indignantly. "Don't speak like that.
How can you, Gerald? Besides, it was not Gilbert who told me."

"Not Gilbert? Who was it, then?"

"It doesn't matter who it was," she replied, "and I shall not tell
you."

"Don't! I don't care! It was some meddlesome busybody! If I did go
to the clay pits, what has that to do with you?" he demanded angrily.

"A great deal. How should I feel if you fell into one of the pits and
got drowned?" And the tears welled into her eyes at the thought.

"Pooh! I'm not likely to do that!" he retorted scornfully.

"Did you forget Uncle Edward had forbidden you to go there? But, no!
You told me a story, thinking it wouldn't be found out where you'd
been."

"Well, you needn't make such a fuss about it. I won't tell you what
isn't true again. I went with Reginald Hope to get some fish for his
aquarium; I couldn't well refuse to go; if I had, it would have
seemed so disobliging."

"Not if you had told him Uncle Edward had forbidden us to go near
the clay pits."

Gerald was silent, not deeming it prudent to explain that he had
informed his friend of that fact, and had been laughed out of the
thought of obedience.

Gilbert Mickle had not been very far wrong when he had said that
Reginald Hope had Gerald under his thumb.

"I didn't want to go," the boy acknowledged at length, "but Hope made
such a point of it, and so—and so I went. Of course, I know it wasn't
right of me, and I wouldn't have father or Uncle Edward hear about it