Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: A PERILOUS SITUATION.]

                       COUSIN BECKY'S CHAMPIONS

                                 BY

                         ELEANORA H. STOOKE

 AUTHOR OF "ROBIN OF SUN COURT," "GRANFER AND ONE CHRISTMAS TIME," ETC.

                  WITH TWO FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
                         BY ISABEL WATKIN

                               LONDON
                   NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY
             19, GREAT PETER STREET, WESTMINSTER, S.W.
          NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 & 3, BIBLE HOUSE
                               1909

                      [All rights reserved]

                             CONTENTS

Chapter

    I. THE HOME IN PRINCESS STREET

   II. WHY AUNT JANIE CALLED

  III. AT THE ROOKERY

   IV. COUSIN BECKY'S ARRIVAL AT BEAWORTHY

    V. AFTER THE SNOWSTORM

   VI. "SHOWING OFF"

  VII. SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT THE ROOKERY

 VIII. COUSIN BECKY FINDS A HOME

   IX. A MORNING WALK

    X. BROUGHT TO BOOK

   XI. IN THE CLOCK CASE

  XII. COUSIN BECKY TELLS A SECRET

 XIII. THE CALAIS NOBLE

  XIV. MR. MARSH DISCOVERS HIS LOSS

   XV. EDGAR LEARNS HIS FATHER'S SUSPICION

  XVI. UNDER A CLOUD

 XVII. IN VIEW OF A HOLIDAY

XVIII. THE REAPPEARANCE OF THE CALAIS NOBLE

  XIX. AN ACCIDENT TO EDGAR

   XX. COUSIN BECKY TAKEN INTO CONFIDENCE

  XXI. AT THE MILL HOUSE

 XXII. AN UNFORESEEN EXPERIENCE

XXIII. RESCUED

 XXIV. CONCLUSION

                      LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

 A PERILOUS SITUATION

 COUSIN BECKY AND POLLY

                     COUSIN BECKY'S CHAMPIONS

CHAPTER I

THE HOME IN PRINCESS STREET

"TAKE that—and that—and that, and now go home and tell Aunt Janie I've
smacked her dearie! I don't care if she calls and complains of me to
mother—it would be like her to do that!" And the angry speaker—Roger
Trent, a boy of about nine years of age—turned on his heel, and with
head held high and flashing eyes, walked off, his heart beating fast
with indignation as his mind dwelt wrathfully on the incident which had
caused him to so far lose his temper as to cuff his companion in the
open street.

A few minutes previously he had been walking amicably by the side of
his cousin, Edgar Marsh, on their way home from school, when the latter
had caught up a stone, which he had shied at a terrier with such true
aim that it had hit the poor animal in the leg and sent it howling
pitifully down the street; whereupon Roger had turned upon his cousin
and dealt him several swift blows, for he hated anything like cruelty,
and he possessed a fiery temper which often got him into trouble.

"I suppose there'll be no end of a row now," he reflected somewhat
ruefully; "but Edgar's as old as I am and quite as big, so it wasn't
cowardly to hit him, and he deserved what he got. I wish, though, I'd
remembered what mother said, that she hoped I would try to keep the
peace with Edgar. But I'm sure if she'd heard that poor little dog
howling with pain, she'd have been angry herself; and Edgar could have
hit me back if he'd liked—there is no fight in him! I wish he wasn't my
cousin; and, oh, how I wish my father wasn't working for his father,
then—"

He paused in his reflections, for he had turned down a side street,
called Princess Street, and had reached home—a house in the midst of
a long row of others, all exactly alike—and there at the sitting-room
window were his mother and his sister Polly, watching for him. The
angry cloud lifted from his countenance at the sight of the pair, and
he smiled and nodded; but his mother had been quick to notice that
something had gone wrong, and her first words, when her son entered the
sitting-room, were:

"What is amiss, Roger? Have you been in mischief?"

"Why, mother, how sharp you are!" he exclaimed. Then he told her what
had occurred, whilst she listened attentively, her face, which was pale
and careworn, taking a decidedly anxious expression.

"Oh, Roger, you should not have struck your cousin!" she cried
reprovingly when he had concluded his tale. "You really must try to
keep your temper under better control, my dear boy."

"But, mother, it was cruel and wicked of Edgar to hit the poor dog,"
interposed Polly eagerly. "He had no right to throw a stone at it."

"Certainly not. Nevertheless, Roger had no right to hit Edgar. Two
wrongs do not make one right."

Polly looked unconvinced. She was a pretty little girl, a year her
brother's senior, with fair hair and honest grey eyes.

"I expect Aunt Janie will make a fuss," she observed, "for Edgar's
sure to tell her—he's such a little tell-tale—and she always takes his
part. That's so unfair. Oh, mother, I can't like Aunt Janie, I can't!
I suppose she's kind—oh yes, I know she is, but sometimes I wish she
wasn't, and then I shouldn't feel so bad about not liking her more."

And Polly looked down over herself and reflected that she really
must be very ungrateful, seeing that she was clothed, at the present
moment, in a frock which her mother had made for her from one of her
aunt's cast-off gowns. "She isn't a bit like father," she proceeded;
"no one would think they were brother and sister, like Roger and me.
Oh, mother, if I was a rich lady and Roger had lost all his money and
become quite poor, I know what I'd do!"

"Well?" said Mrs. Trent, inquiringly, amused at the little girl's
earnestness. "What would you do, then?"

"I'd share my money with him," was the decisive reply.

"Of course you would, Polly," said Roger heartily. "And if I was rich
and you were poor I'd go shares with you."

"You see, your aunt cannot do that, because her money is, a great part
of it, her husband's," Mrs. Trent reminded them, "and your father would
not like to take money from him—except what he earns."

"Did Uncle John ever want to give father some money?" Polly questioned
inquisitively.

"N-o-o," her mother was obliged to admit. "But you must remember that
your uncle has been very kind to us. When your father lost his money,
it was your uncle who came forward and offered him employment in his
office; but for that we should have come to want; and you know we often
get fruit and vegetables from the Rookery gardens; and you and I,
Polly, would have been very shabby before now but for your aunt's gifts
of clothes. Don't let us be ungrateful, my dears!"

There was a brief silence. Mrs. Trent had spoken earnestly; and now she
bent her head over the stocking she was in the midst of darning to hide
the tears which glistened in her eyes. She was a very pretty woman; but
though she was only a little over thirty years of age, her brown hair
was streaked with white, and she had the appearance of one weighed down
with many cares. When she had married, her husband had been a man in a
good position as a clay merchant in the flourishing town of Beaworthy.
The young couple had lived in a nice house in the suburbs, where the
two children had been born; but, owing to heavy trade losses, and the
failure of a bank in which Mr. Trent had had a considerable interest,
the once prosperous man had been brought to the verge of ruin, and
having failed in his business, he had been glad to accept a post as
clerk in the office of Mr. Marsh, who had married his sister. Mr. Marsh
was a clay merchant, too, but, unlike his brother-in-law, he was a
successful trader, and it seemed as though everything he had touched
had turned to gold.

Three years had now elapsed since the Trents had removed from their
old home to their present abode in Princess Street, where they kept
one servant instead of three, and dropped out of touch with many of
their former acquaintances, as people do who have known better days.
Sometimes Mrs. Marsh called upon her sister-in-law, and the inhabitants
of Princess Street would flock to their windows to gaze at the
carriage, with its pair of roan horses, drawn up before the Trents'
door, and watch brown paper parcels and baskets carried into the house,
and poor Mrs. Trent would blame herself for minding that everyone was
aware she was indebted to her husband's sister for the clothes she wore
and was really thankful to accept, and the surplus fruit and vegetables
from her brother-in-law's gardens.

"If only Janie would walk when she comes to call, I should be so much
better pleased," she had said to Mr. Trent on one occasion. "Her
carriage is out of place in Princess Street." And then she had been
sorry she had made the remark, because her husband had looked pained.

Mr. and Mrs. Marsh had only one child, the boy whom Roger had so
promptly punished for his cruelty that afternoon. He was spoilt by his
parents; and his cousins, up to the present, had seen very little of
him, for their invitations to the Rookery had been few and far between,
and he had rarely visited them at Princess Street. But during the last
few weeks Edgar and Roger had clashed at the Grammar School, which
they had attended since Christmas, and they had already had several
disagreements, for the former had been brought up to be domineering,
and the latter could not brook being dictated to by a boy of his own
age.

"I am sorry I hit Edgar," Roger admitted by-and-by, when his temper had
had time to cool, "especially before so many people. I'll apologise to
him to-morrow, that is, if he doesn't tell Aunt Janie; but I expect he
will. He's a rare sneak. Are we going to have tea before father comes
home, or shall we wait for him, mother?"

"We will wait for him, my dear. He said he hoped to be back by
half-past five."

"Oh, that's jolly!" Roger exclaimed, his countenance brightening. "We
must keep up the fire, for it's awfully cold!" And he took up the coal
shovel.

"I hope it will soon get warmer," Mrs. Trent remarked, "but I suppose
we cannot expect it to do so in February. 'When the days begin to
lengthen, the cold begins to strengthen,'" she quoted with rather a
rueful smile.

"The coal heap's getting very low," announced Polly, as she watched her
brother putting coals on the fire, "I peeped in to-day. I suppose they
don't mind how much coal they use at the Rookery. Mother, it doesn't
seem fair that Uncle John and Aunt Janie should be so rich when we are
so poor. I don't believe they're any better than we are."

"Oh, hush, Polly!" cried Mrs. Trent. "You mustn't speak like that.
Think of all our blessings. Sometimes I feel a very rich woman indeed."

"Why, mother!" exclaimed Roger in amazement.

"Rich because I have a good husband and children who give me a wealth
of love," Mrs. Trent went on to explain with a smile which made her
face look very pretty and young. "I wouldn't change places with any
woman I know."

The boy threw his arms around her neck and kissed her with tender
affection, for he was deeply attached to his mother, whilst Polly
remarked:

"I'm glad you're like yourself, mother; I wouldn't have you like
Aunt Janie for the world. Good gracious, here she is!" she exclaimed
excitedly, rushing to the window as a carriage stopped at the door.
"Yes, she's getting out; and oh, Roger, she does look so cross!"

"She's coming to complain about me, for certain," said Roger with a
sigh of resignation, though he looked somewhat alarmed. He felt glad
that he had confessed all that had occurred to his mother, and wondered
what punishment his aunt would demand to have meted out to him for his
treatment of her son.

"Well, of all the mean, spiteful boys I ever heard of, Edgar is the
worst," declared Polly in an indignant whisper to her brother, as with
a rustling of silken skirts Mrs. Marsh swept into the room. "I hope,
Roger, that you hit him hard—he deserved it, I'm sure."

CHAPTER II

WHY AUNT JANIE CALLED

Mrs. Marsh was a tall, handsome woman, several years the senior of her
sister-in-law, whom she greeted in a manner which, though intended to
be kindly, was more than a little patronising. She kissed her niece and
nephew, and then seated herself in an easy chair near the fire, whilst
the children withdrew to the window to watch for their father's arrival.

"I don't believe she has come to complain of you, Roger," whispered
Polly, "for she called you 'my dear.'"

Roger nodded, intensely relieved in mind. He was looking at his aunt's
carriage a trifle enviously, and thinking he would like the situation
of coachman so as to drive the beautiful horses he so greatly admired.
But when he said so to Polly, she appeared indignant at the idea, and
bade him be quiet and listen to what Aunt Janie had to say.

"No, thank you, Mary," Mrs. Marsh replied, in response to her
sister-in-law's offer of a cup of tea. "I merely called to see Martin—"
Martin was Mr. Trent—"to tell him about a letter I've received from
Cousin Becky. You've heard of her, of course—Rebecca Trent, a first
cousin of father's?"

"Oh yes!" answered Mrs. Trent, with a show of keen interest. "Martin
was telling the children about her the other day, and wondering what
had become of her. He will be so glad to hear you have heard from her.
She must be an old woman now?"

"Close on seventy. She used to visit at our house when Martin and I
were about the age of Polly and Roger; but she always made her home
with her brother, who had been left a widower with a young family. In
fact, she brought up his children. In the letter I have to-day had from
her, she informs me that her brother is dead, and that now she is all
alone."

"How sad!" exclaimed Mrs. Trent with ready sympathy, whilst Polly and
Roger exchanged concerned glances. "Poor soul! But I suppose she has
means to provide herself with another home?"

"I should say that is very doubtful. Cousin Becky never had any
property, as far as I know, and it is certain her brother could do
nothing towards making a provision for her in case she survived
him, for he lived on his pension—he was a retired naval officer, as
doubtless Martin has told you—and had very little private property.
Becky ought to have gone into a situation when she was young, instead
of living with her brother, then perhaps she would have been able to
make some provision for her old age—I've written and told her so."

Mrs. Marsh paused, for at that moment the sitting-room door opened to
admit her brother. Mr. Trent was tall, and very like his sister in
features, but there the resemblance between the two ended, for the
expression of his countenance was good-humoured, and his many troubles
had failed to embitter him, for he owned a hopeful disposition and one
of the kindest hearts in the world, whereas Mrs. Marsh, in spite of her
air of prosperity, looked anything but a contented woman.

"Oh, father, Aunt Janie has had a letter from Cousin Becky!" cried
Polly, eager to be first with the news.

"Well, I am glad," Mr. Trent declared heartily, as selected a chair
by his sister's side and, sitting down, took the letter which she had
drawn from her pocket and now offered to him. "You and I were very fond
of her when we were youngsters, Janie, and she was very good to us, I
remember. What has the dear old body to say for herself?"

"You had better see!" Mrs. Marsh responded dryly.

Thus advised, Mr. Trent opened the letter and read aloud as follows:—

   "My DEAR JANIE,—"

   "It is many years since you and I met, but there is still a warm
corner in my heart for the little girl and boy who were such firm
friends of mine in those days when I used to visit at their home; and
I hope they may have some kindly remembrances of 'Cousin Becky'—which
hope impels me to write to you now. Dear Janie, I am left all alone.
A few months since my dear brother died after a long illness; and his
three children are all married and far away. The boy is settled
in New Zealand, and the two girls are in India—one is married to an
officer in the Army, the other to an engineer. My nephew has offered
me a home, but I am too old to be transplanted to the other side of
the world, so I have declined his offer, and now propose to visit
Beaworthy with the idea of settling there. I have pleasant recollections
of the place, and as you and Martin are my only relations in England,
I feel I should like to pass my remaining days near you. Could you
recommend me to lodgings, or to any nice family who would take a
boarder? I have no doubt you can assist me in this matter, and I shall
eagerly await your reply."

   "With my love to Martin and yourself, and hoping soon to see you both
and to make the acquaintance of your husband and boy,"

                       "I am, my dear Janie,"
                            "Your affectionate cousin,"
                                          "Rebecca Trent."

"I suppose you've written and asked her to visit you, Janie," remarked
Mr. Trent as he returned the letter to his sister.

"I have done no such thing, Martin. Of course, I see that is what she
expected—I can read between the lines, so to speak—but I talked the
matter over with John, and we came to the conclusion that it would be
wiser not to do so; if we once gave her a footing at the Rookery we
might find a difficulty in getting rid of her, and—and—"

Mrs. Marsh paused and coloured as she met her brother's astonished
eyes. There was a long, awkward silence, which Mrs. Trent at length
broke by remarking gently:

"It is very sad to be old and poor, and especially for one who has led
a noble and self-sacrificing life—"

"She ought to have considered herself," Mrs. Marsh broke in tartly,
"and so I've reminded her. I've written and advised her to stay where
she is, in London; I suppose she must have some friends there. I think
she would be foolish to come to Beaworthy, anyway. Well, I really must
go; I only came to show you Cousin Becky's letter, Martin. Good-bye,
children. Good-bye, Mary. You're looking very pale, you ought to get
out more." And Mrs. Marsh rustled out of the room followed by her
brother.

The mother and children stood at the window and watched Mr. Trent
assist his sister into the carriage and wrap the fur rug around her.

"Why doesn't she take you for a drive with her, sometimes, mother?"
said Polly in a tone of dissatisfaction. She regarded her mother
attentively as she spoke, and a pang of pain shot through her loving
heart as she saw that Mrs. Trent was indeed very pale. "It's all very
well to say you ought to get out more, but—oh, I wish we had a carriage
for you to drive out in when the roads and streets are muddy, and—"

"Don't let your father hear you say anything like that," Mrs. Trent
interposed hurriedly. "You need not trouble because I am pale—I always
am, you know. There! Your aunt's gone; and now run and tell Louisa to
bring in tea."

Polly obeyed, and by the time Louisa—the maid-of-all-work—had done her
bidding, Mr. Trent had changed his coat for the older one he always
wore at home in the evenings, and had returned to the sitting-room.
During the meal which followed, Roger told his father how he had feared
his aunt had come on another errand; and though Mr. Trent chided his
son for having lost his temper and struck his cousin, he sympathised
with the indignation which had caused him to act so impetuously.

"I should be sorry for you to be really at enmity with Edgar," he said
gravely, "so I hope you will try to make peace with him to-morrow. His
cruelty was probably the result of thoughtlessness, but it ought to be
checked."

"Aunt Janie never thinks he does wrong," declared Polly. "And, oh,
father, don't you consider it's very strange she doesn't want Cousin
Becky to visit her?" she added eagerly.

"Yes, Polly, I do," Mr. Trent admitted with a glance at his wife. "I
only wish we were better off so that we could ask Cousin Becky here,
but I suppose it's not to be thought of under present circumstances."

"Why not, father?" asked Roger. "Do you think she would not like to
come—that she would not like our house?"

"No. I am sure she would not mind our house being small and shabby, and
in a street, for she has had to rough it in her day; but—" Mr. Trent
paused and glanced at his wife again.

"We have no spare room," she remarked dubiously, "only that little
attic next to Louisa's; we could not put a visitor there."

"Cousin Becky could have my room—it's rather small, of course, but it's
very comfortable and sunny—and I'd go up in the attic," said Polly,
whilst her father nodded approval.

"But, Martin, do you think she would be satisfied with our mode of
living?" questioned Mrs. Trent. "I should like to write and ask her
to come and stay with us until she has made her plans for the future,
because she was kind to you years ago, but—"

"And now she is old and poor, Mary, I should like to be kind to her,"
broke in Mr. Trent, "especially as Janie—but never mind that! Janie
doesn't realise what it is to be without money and friends, so we
mustn't blame her if she appears a little hard. Cousin Becky must be
very friendless, I fancy, or she wouldn't think of coming to Beaworthy.
There are plenty of people who would want her to be their guests if she
was rich, but she is doubtless as poor as ourselves. One more at our
table surely cannot make much difference—eh, Mary?"

The children regarded their mother with expectant eyes, rather
marvelling at the hesitancy they read in her face, for they were not
troubled by thoughts of ways and means. A visitor in the house would
have all the charm of novelty for them, and their father had told them
so many reminiscences of Cousin Becky that they longed to see her.

"She is awfully nice, isn't she, father?" questioned Roger.

"She used to be very nice, my son, and I don't suppose she has much
altered with age. She was never a fussy old maid, and she loved
children dearly."

"Oh, mother, do write and ask her to come!" pleaded the little boy
coaxingly.

"I certainly will, as you all seem to desire it so much," Mrs. Trent
agreed with a smile, "and if she does come we will do our best to make
her as comfortable and happy with us as possible. I only hesitated to
invite her because I could not quite see how we were to manage; but
since Polly is willing to give up her room, and your father thinks
Cousin Becky will be satisfied with our humble fare—well, then, I'll
write to-night."

Accordingly, as soon as tea was over, Mrs. Trent wrote the letter,
and Roger ran out and posted it; and there was a general sense of
satisfaction that the right thing had been done. In the course of a few
days Cousin Becky's reply was received. It was a brief, grateful note
of thanks and acceptance of the invitation, saying the writer hoped to
be with her cousins in Princess Street the following week.

AT THE ROOKERY

"Is that you, Edgar, darling? Come to the fire and warm yourself. It's
snowing, isn't it?"

"Yes, mother. I hope we shall have a good downfall. If it snows like
this all through the night we shall be able to make a snow man in the
playground to-morrow. Won't that be jolly?"

It was an afternoon several days subsequent to the one on which Mrs.
Marsh had called on her relatives in Princess Street; and the scene
was the spacious drawing-room at the Rookery, which, with a big coal
fire burning in the grate, and its handsome, well-chosen furniture,
was a picture of comfort, not to say luxury. Mrs. Marsh sat near the
fireplace, a small table bearing tea-things, a plate of thin bread
and butter, and part of a rich cake in a silver cake-basket at her
side. She had been entertaining callers, but they had left early on
account of the snowstorm which had been threatening. Edgar, who had
just returned from school, flung his satchel of lesson-books into a
corner of the room, and, advancing to the tea-table, helped himself to
a hunk of cake. His mother watched him with an indulgent smile; she
was naturally very proud and fond of her son, who was indeed a very
nice-looking little lad, with his bright blue eyes, fresh complexion,
and curly, brown hair.

"Are your feet wet, dearie?" she inquired anxiously, as she poured him
out a cup of tea.

"No," he answered untruthfully, for he knew they were. He sat down and
tucked his feet out of sight under the chair. "Give me plenty of cream
and sugar, please, mother," he said. "This is a very good cake."

"Yes; but had you not better eat some bread and butter with it? It is
very rich."

He paid no heed to her suggestion, however, and there was silence for a
few minutes till he cut himself a second slice of cake as large as the
first.

"My dear child—" began Mrs. Marsh expostulatingly; but Edgar
interrupted her:

"Oh, mother, don't fuss!"

"I merely speak for your good, my darling, I—"

"I do wish you wouldn't keep on calling me 'dearie' and 'darling' and
names of that sort; it's so silly, just as though I was a baby, and
it makes people laugh, and I hate being laughed at!" The boy spoke
petulantly with deepening colour, but his eyes drooped beneath his
mother's reproachful glance. "I don't believe Roger's mother would be
so foolish," he added, "and Roger says you treat me as though I was a
girl."

Mrs. Marsh looked both hurt and angry, but she made no response. Her
affection for her son showed itself in words of exaggerated endearment,
and he was now of an age to greatly dislike being made to appear
ridiculous. It had been at his father's wish that he had been entered
as a pupil at the Grammar School; Mrs. Marsh had wanted to have him
educated by a tutor at home, but her husband had been too wise to
listen to her views on the point of their son's education. Edgar should
go to a public school, he had firmly declared, the boy would soon
find his level there; and that he was certainly doing, the process
proving rather a humbling one. Master Edgar Marsh was not quite such
an important person in his own estimation to-day as he had been at the
commencement of the school only a few weeks previously.

"I walked as far as the corner of Princess Street with Roger this
afternoon," Edgar informed his mother by-and-by. "I should not like to
live where he does, I told him so."

"What did he say?" asked Mrs. Marsh curiously.

"He didn't say anything, but he got very red and looked angry. He very
soon gets angry, you know, and I don't think he liked what I said."

"I thought you told me the other day that you didn't care for Roger,
and that you never meant to speak to him again," Mrs. Marsh observed
with a slight smile.

"Oh," the little boy exclaimed, appearing somewhat confused, "that was
because he hit me; but—but it was partly my fault for—never mind about
that! Afterwards he said he was sorry, and we've been better friends
since. Roger's all right when you come to know him."

"I'm glad to hear that, because he's your cousin, and though,
unfortunately for him, his position in life will be very different from
yours, I shouldn't like you to quarrel with him. Your Uncle Martin and
I were devoted to each other when we were children; indeed, I've always
been much attached to my brother, and I've always made it my first duty
to be kind to his family."

"It must be very cold travelling to-day," Edgar remarked, glancing out
of the window at the falling snow. "Is it a long journey from London to
Beaworthy, mother?"

"Yes; do you know anyone who is making it?"

"I was thinking of Cousin Becky." "Cousin Becky? What do you mean?
She's not coming here. I never invited her."

"No. But she's coming to stay with Uncle Martin and Aunt Mary. Didn't
you know it, mother? Why, I could have told you that days ago!"

"Then, pray, why didn't you?"

"I never thought of it. Roger told me, and of course I thought you
knew. She's coming to-night. Roger's going to the station with Uncle
Martin to meet her at seven o'clock and she's to have Polly's room."

"And what's to become of Polly?"

"She's going to sleep in the attic."

"The idea! Mary must be crazy to upset her arrangements for an old
woman she has never seen in her life, one in whom she can have no
possible interest."

"Roger says Cousin Becky is very poor," Edgar observed thoughtfully.
"It must be dreadful to be poor, mother, mustn't it?"

"Yes," she acknowledged, surprised at the unusual gravity of her son's
face.

"That's why they invited Cousin Becky to Princess Street," Edgar
proceeded, "because she's poor and lonely. Roger says now Cousin
Becky's brother is dead she hasn't even a home, and no one wants
her—you know you didn't, mother."

"But to burden themselves with an old woman," Mrs. Marsh was
commencing, when the keen, questioning gaze with which her little
boy was regarding her caused her to break off and leave her sentence
unfinished.

"It's so odd you didn't want Cousin Becky here," he said. "I can't
think why you didn't, because we've lots of spare rooms, and we're
always having visitors. Don't you like Cousin Becky, mother?"

"I have not seen her for many years," was the evasive reply. "Will you
have another cup of tea, Edgar? No, I will not allow you to have any
more cake; you will make yourself ill."

"Give me just a tiny piece, mother. I'm hungry still."

"Then have some bread and butter."

"No," pouted the spoilt child, "I won't have anything more to eat if I
can't have cake."

It ended in his being allowed another slice, and whilst he was eating
it, his father, a short, bald, middle-aged man, entered the room, and
came up to the fire, rubbing his hands and complaining of the cold.

"We're going to have a heavy fall of snow if I'm not much mistaken,"
he said. "You'll like that, eh, Edgar? I remember when I was your age
there was nothing I liked better than a snowballing match with my
school-fellows. Rare fun we used to have."

"Fancy, John, Cousin Becky is coming to Beaworthy after all," Mrs.
Marsh informed him. "She's going to stay with Martin. Edgar heard from
Roger that she is expected to-night."

"Well, I suppose your brother knows what he is about," Mr. Marsh
replied, shrugging his shoulders. "You'll have to ask the old lady to
spend a day with you, Janie."

"And ask Aunt Mary, too," said Edgar eagerly; "I like Aunt Mary. But
don't have Polly, mother."

"Why not?" inquired Mr. Marsh, looking amused.

"She's such a cheeky little girl," the boy replied, recalling how
on one of the rare occasions when he had taken tea with his cousins
at their home, Polly had nick-named him "tell-tale" because he had
threatened to inform his mother of something which had happened to
displease him. He knew better than to do that now, but he seldom
encountered Polly without she addressed him as "tell-tale."

"Edgar, your boots are wet!" cried Mrs. Marsh as, in an unwary moment,
the little boy drew his feet out from under the chair. "I can see
the water oozing out of the leather. Go and change them at once, or
you'll catch a terrible cold. How could you say they were not wet when
you must have known differently? You ought to be ashamed to be so
untruthful."

Edgar was in no wise disconcerted by this rebuke; but he left the
drawing-room and went upstairs to his own room, where he discarded
his snow-sodden boots for his slippers, and then stood at the window
looking out into the garden, which was separated from the high road by
tall elm trees, where the rooks built their nests every spring. The
snow was falling very fast now, covering the world with a spotless
mantle of white; and Edgar's mind reverted to the visitor whom his
cousins expected to welcome to their home that night.

"I suppose mother thought she'd be in the way if she came here," he
reflected shrewdly, "but I should say she'll be much more in the way in
Uncle Martin's poky little house. It's really very kind of Aunt Mary to
have her. Roger says his mother is always kind, and that we all ought
to try to be—for Jesus' sake, because He loves every living thing, even
animals. I suppose that's true, it's in the Bible about His noticing
if a sparrow falls, so it must be, but I never thought much of it till
Roger spoke to me about it the day after I'd hit that dog. I didn't
mean to hurt it—I only meant to frighten it; I suppose it was cowardly.
Well, I won't be unkind to an animal again; and I'm glad I didn't make
a fuss about Roger's having struck me, especially as he was sorry
afterwards."

It was cold in his bedroom, so in a short while the little boy went
downstairs. In the hall he encountered Titters, his mother's favourite
Persian cat; but when—mindful of his resolution to be kind to animals
in future—he essayed to stroke her, she tried to escape from him, and
arched her back and raised her fur in anything but a friendly fashion.
Truth to tell, he had been in the habit of teasing her, and she
consequently mistrusted his intentions. However, he caught her, picked
her up, and was carrying her into the drawing-room in his arms when she
suddenly gave him a vicious scratch on the cheek, whereupon he dropped
her with a cry of mingled anger and pain.

"See what Titters has done to me, mother!" he exclaimed as he entered
the drawing-room.

"What a nasty scratch!" Mrs. Marsh said. "But you should not have
teased the poor creature, Edgar."

"I was not teasing her, mother."

"Now, my dear, I know better than that. How can you tell me such a
naughty story? I do wish you would learn to speak the truth. You are
always teasing Titters—I suppose that's only natural as you're a boy—so
you need not pretend you were not doing so just now."

Edgar did not argue the point, but he regarded his mother with an
injured air which only made her laugh. He was annoyed that she did
not believe him, forgetful that not long before he had told her an
untruth about his boots, and that not without cause had he gained the
reputation of a perverter of the truth.

CHAPTER IV

COUSIN BECKY'S ARRIVAL AT BEAWORTHY

"Isn't it nearly time for you to start, father?" asked Polly, turning
from the window out of which, with her face pressed close to the glass,
she had been watching the falling snow, and glancing at Mr. Trent, who,
during the half-hour which had elapsed since the family had arisen from
the tea-table, had been quietly reading the newspaper.

"Very nearly, my dear," he answered, raising his eyes to the clock on
the mantelpiece, and then fixing them on his newspaper again.

"I believe the clock's rather slow, father, and it will take you quite
quarter of an hour walking to the station. It's half-past six."

"And Cousin Becky's train is not due to arrive till ten minutes past
seven, so there's plenty of time. Where is Roger?"

"Gone to put on his boots, father. Don't you think you had better put
on yours?"

Mr. Trent laughed as he laid aside his newspaper. "I see you will not
be satisfied till I am gone," he remarked. "Fetch my boots, there's a
good girl."

Ten minutes later Mr. Trent and Roger were putting on their overcoats
in the hall, preparatory to braving the snowstorm. The latter was quite
as anxious to start for the station as Polly was to send him off. In
fact, both children were much excited about their expected guest.

"You won't be able to wear this much longer," Polly observed, as
she assisted her brother into his overcoat, which had become most
uncomfortably tight for him. She buttoned it across his chest with some
difficulty, adding, "You look like a trussed fowl."

"He has grown so much this winter," said Mrs. Trent, overhearing
Polly's unflattering remark on her brother's appearance as she came
downstairs. "I wish he could have a new overcoat, but—" She paused with
a faint sigh, and Roger said quickly:

"Oh, this one will last me a long time yet, and I don't in the least
mind how I look. It's a good warm old coat."

"That's right, Roger, never run down an old friend, especially one
that's served you well," said Mr. Trent, at which they all laughed;
for, poor though they were and obliged to practise many economies, they
were a lighthearted family and happy amongst themselves.

"Surely you are very early in starting for the station," said Mrs.
Trent. "There is half an hour before the train is due."

"Yes; but Polly is anxious to get us off," her husband returned, with
a smiling glance at his little daughter, "and there's sure to be a
good fire in the waiting-room at the station if we have long to wait.
I shall not be surprised if the train is late to-night, the snowstorm
will probably delay it a little."

"It's snowing very fast," announced Roger, as he opened the door and
stepped into the street, followed by his father. "I believe it's inches
deep already."

"We must keep up a good fire in the sitting-room, for Cousin Becky is
sure to arrive very cold," said Mrs. Trent as she closed the front
door. "I wish there was a fireplace in your bedroom, Polly, but the
oil-stove has made it feel very warm and comfortable."

The little girl ran upstairs to the room she had vacated for Cousin
Becky. A heating stove with a crimson glass shade stood on the floor,
and threw a rosy glow around. The apartment was small and plainly
furnished, but it looked very cosy, and Polly thought their expected
visitor would be very hard to please if she was not satisfied with such
a nice little room. She said something of the kind when she joined her
mother downstairs a few minutes later, and Mrs. Trent smiled, but made
no response. She was as curious as her children to see Cousin Becky,
and not a little anxious as well. How the hands of the clock seemed to
drag as Polly watched them! Seven o'clock struck, and nearly another
hour paced before a cab drew up before the house. Then mother and
daughter hastened into the hall, and the former flung open wide the
door, a welcoming smile on her face.

"Here she is, Mary!" cried Mr. Trent, as he sprang out of the cab and
assisted a little lady to alight. He led her immediately into the
house, whilst Roger followed labouring under a bundle of wraps and a
rug. "Here she is," he repeated, "almost frozen with cold, I believe.
Becky, this is my wife, and this is my little maid, Polly. Go into the
sitting-room, out of the draught, whilst I see to the luggage."

Not a word had the stranger spoken yet but she had taken Mrs. Trent's
outstretched hand and warmly returned the kiss which the latter
had given her; then she had kissed Polly, too, and now she allowed
herself to be led into the sitting-room and established in the big,
leather-covered easy chair by the fire.

"How good you all are to me!" she exclaimed at length with a quick
breath, which sounded very like a sob, as she took off her thick
veil, revealing a countenance which, though plain, was redeemed from
insignificance by a pair of bright, observant dark eyes—wonderfully
soft eyes they were at the present moment, for they smiled through a
mist of tears. "Why, you might have known me all your lives by the
warmth of your greetings.'"

"I have heard a great deal of you from my husband," Mrs. Trent told
her. "You do not seem a stranger at all."

"I am pleased to hear that. What a glorious fire! A good fire is always
such a welcome, I think. And what a cosy room!" And the bright, dark
eyes wandered around the apartment with its worn Brussels carpet and
well-used furniture, with appreciation in their gaze.

"I believe you will find the house comfortable, though small, and—I'm
afraid—rather shabby," Mrs. Trent replied.

"It is a home," Cousin Becky declared with a pleased nod. "I've been
in many large, handsomely-furnished houses that have never been that.
Well," she said, turning her glance upon Polly, who had been watching
her intently, "do you think you will like me, my dear?"

"Yes," Polly responded with a smile, by no means abashed at this
direct question. "I am sure I shall. But you are not a bit like what I
expected."

"Indeed! What did you expect?"

"I thought you would look much older," the little girl candidly
admitted.

"I'm nearly seventy, my dear, and that's a good age. But I don't feel
old, and I cannot have changed a great deal of late years—except that
my hair has grown white—for your father recognised me the minute he saw
me on the platform."

At that moment Mr. Trent appeared upon the scene, followed by Roger.
They had been helping to take their visitor's luggage upstairs; and
Mrs. Trent now suggested that Cousin Becky should go to her room and
remove her travelling things, by which time she would be glad of some
tea.

"What do you think of her, Polly?" asked Roger, as soon as their mother
and Cousin Becky had gone upstairs together.

"I think she looks very nice and kind," was the prompt reply; "but what
a little thing she is, Roger! Father, you never told us that."

In truth, Miss Trent was a very little lady, with a slight figure which
was wonderfully upright and agile for one her age. When she returned to
the sitting-room, Roger pulled the easy chair nearer the fire for her,
and Polly placed a cushion behind her shoulders, and she looked at them
both with a very tender light shining in her dark eyes.

"Thank you, my dears," she said with the smile which made her plain
face look almost beautiful. "I will take the easy chair to-night as I
am weary after my journey, but usually I am not so indulgent to myself.
Roger, you are very like what your father used to be at your age."

"And do you think I am like Aunt Janie?" asked Polly, veiled anxiety in
her tone.

"Slightly, perhaps; but you are more like your mother," was the decided
reply.

"Oh, I am glad to hear you say that!" Polly cried delightedly. "I would
rather not be like Aunt Janie at all; though everyone says she is very
handsome," she added meditatively.

"Polly does not much care for Aunt Janie," Roger explained; "but she's
very nice in her way. And Uncle John's very nice, too, but we don't see
much of him. Oh, here's Louisa with tea—"

"Which I am sure Cousin Becky must be greatly in need of," Mrs. Trent
interposed, not sorry of this opportunity of changing the conversation,
"so hush your chatter, children, for a while, and let her take her meal
in peace."

"I love listening to their chatter," Cousin Becky said. She did full
justice to the chop which had been cooked for her and enjoyed her tea;
and afterwards they all sat round the fire, and the children listened
whilst their elders conversed about people and places they only knew by
name. Then by-and-by Cousin Becky spoke of her brother's death, and her
own forlorn condition.

"I cannot tell you how glad I was to receive your letter, my dear,"
she said to Mrs. Trent. "I considered it was especially kind of you to
invite me to visit you as you had never seen me in your life."

"Father wanted you to come, and so did Polly and I," Roger informed her
frankly, "but mother was afraid—" He paused in sudden confusion.

"Afraid you might not be satisfied with our mode of living, Becky,"
Mr. Trent said with a smile, whilst his wife shook her head at him
reproachfully.

"The idea!" cried Cousin Becky with a laugh.

"I told her you had had to rough it in your day," Mr. Trent proceeded,
"and that you were not a fussy old maid. You see we're living in a
small way, and we've had reverses of fortune, as no doubt you have
heard, but I don't think we're a discontented family, and we make the
best of things—eh, my dear?" he questioned, turning to his wife.

"Yes," she answered, "or, at any rate, we try to do so. Children, I
think it is time for you to say good-night; it is long past your usual
bed-time."

"I wonder who put those lovely snowdrops in the vase on the
dressing-table in my room," said Cousin Becky, as the young people rose
obediently to retire for the night.

"Roger did," replied Polly, "he bought them on purpose for you. Do you
like them?"

"Indeed I do. Thank you, Roger, so much; it was a most kindly thought
which prompted you to get them for me."

The little boy blushed with pleasure, for it was nice to know the
flowers were appreciated, and he had been wondering if Cousin Becky
had noticed them. After the children had said good-night and left the
room, they stood a few minutes in the hall, discussing their visitor in
whispers.

"She's awfully jolly," Roger said decidedly, "and she seemed very
pleased that I was at the station to meet her with father."

"I like her," Polly answered. "It must be very bad to be alone in the
world if you're poor," she continued thoughtfully. "Did you see the
tears in her eyes when she talked of her brother and said she had no
home now?"

"Yes," assented Roger; "but she didn't say anything about being poor."

"No, but we know she is, from what Aunt Janie said. If she had been
rich she'd have been invited to stay at the Rookery." Polly was a sharp
little girl, and often surprised her elders by the clearness of her
mental sight. "I'm glad she's come here instead," she added heartily,
"for we should not see much of her if she was Aunt Janie's visitor."

"I expect not," agreed Roger. "Edgar says he doesn't like Princess
Street, and I suppose Aunt Janie doesn't either. I don't mind, do you?"

Polly declared she did not, but her heart was hot with indignation;
for she realised, more clearly than did her brother, that Aunt Janie
despised their home.

CHAPTER V

AFTER THE SNOWSTORM

"Oh, I say, Roger, do wait for me a moment! What a tremendous hurry
you're in! I want to speak to you."

Roger Trent paused to allow the speaker—Edgar Marsh—to come up to
him. It was nearly five o'clock on the afternoon subsequent to the
night of Cousin Becky's arrival at Beaworthy, and the cousins were
later than usual in returning from school, as they had lingered in the
playground—a large yard surrounded by high walls at the back of the
Grammar School building, which was situated in one of the principal
streets of the town—to enjoy a good game of snowballing. Several inches
of snow had fallen during the night, but the morning had dawned clear
and fine; there had been only a very slight thaw, and now the air was
keen and betokened frost.

"I'm in rather a hurry, because we have tea at five o'clock and mother
will wonder what's become of me if I'm not home by then," Roger
explained, as his cousin joined him and they walked on side by side.

"What a splendid game we've had, haven't we? I believe it's going
to freeze, and if it does the streets will be as slippery as glass
to-morrow."

"So much the better, then we shall be able to make some slides. I don't
mind the cold, do you? But why don't you do up your coat."

"Because it's so uncomfortable if I do; it's too tight for me, I've
grown out of it."

"You ought to have a new one; it's awfully shabby."

Roger laughed at the critical way in which Edgar was surveying him, but
his colour deepened as he said:

"I shan't have a new one till another winter, that's certain, and
perhaps not then; it will all depend—"

"Depend upon what?" asked Edgar inquisitively.

"Upon whether father can afford to buy me one or not," was the frank
response.

Edgar was silent for a few moments. Accustomed to possess everything
that money could buy, it seemed very dreadful to him that his cousin
should not be well clothed. He reflected that Roger and he were
much the same height and size, and determined to ask his mother for
permission to present him with one of his own overcoats.

"It must be horrid to be poor like that," he remarked; "but, never
mind, Roger, I'll see you have another overcoat soon." This was said
with a slightly patronising air, though it was kindly meant.

"What do you mean?" Roger demanded quickly.

"I'll give you one of mine."

"I won't have it. I don't want it. I'd rather wear my old one." Roger's
tone was distinctly ungrateful, and he appeared vexed. "You'd better
mind your own business, Edgar, and let me mind mine."

Edgar looked considerably taken aback. He saw he had annoyed his
companion, but he had not the faintest idea how he had done so.
However, he was wise enough to let the matter drop.

"Did Cousin Becky come last night?" he inquired. "Mother'll be sure to
ask me when I get home."

"She arrived by the ten minutes past seven train," Roger replied.
"Father and I met her at the station—the train was more than half an
hour late—and we drove home in a cab. I enjoyed it."

"Enjoyed what?"

"The drive."

"Oh!" Edgar exclaimed rather contemptuously. "Tell me what Cousin
Becky's like."

"She's very small, and her hair is quite white, and she has very dark
eyes. Polly and I think we shall like her."

"Will she stay long?"

"I don't know. Mother asked her for a few weeks."

The boys had reached the corner of Princess Street now, and were about
to separate when Edgar impulsively caught up a handful of snow and
flung it in his companion's face. Roger had not expected this, but
he laughed and promptly returned the compliment, and soon they were
engaged in a smart game of snowballing, in which a couple of errand
boys who happened to be passing, joined. By-and-by Roger unfortunately
slipped and fell full length on the sloppy ground; but he picked
himself up, unhurt, though very wet and dirty, and returned to the
battle. The game would have lasted much longer than it did, had not
a policeman come round the corner upon the combatants and promptly
dispersed them.

Of course, Roger was late for tea, for, upon reaching home, he found it
was absolutely necessary to change his clothes. It was little wonder
that Louisa grumbled when he marched into the kitchen, after having
put on a dry suit, bearing his wet garments, which he begged her to
dry and clean for him in time for him to wear next day. "Of all the
thoughtless boys I ever knew, I do believe you are the worst, Master
Roger," she said emphatically as she stuffed paper into his dripping
boots to prevent their shrinking. "You'll soon have no clothes to wear,
and what will you do then?" As the little boy offered no solution to
this problem, she continued in the same scolding tone, "I don't know
what the mistress will say when she sees your second-best suit in this
terrible state. Well, leave the things here, I'll try to get them dry
and do my best with them, for it's certain you can't go to school
to-morrow looking such a sight as that!" And a smile broke upon her
countenance as her eyes travelled over his figure. He had been obliged
to don a much-worn suit, darned at the knees and elbows, and too small
for him every way.

"It's very kind of you, Louisa," he said gratefully, "I'll do you a
good turn some day."

"Will you, Master Roger? Well, I believe you would if you could, so
I'll take the will for the deed. Boys will be boys, I suppose, and I
daresay your clothes are not really much damaged after all."

After that Roger left the kitchen and went into the sitting-room. He
apologised to his mother for being late, and drank his luke-warm tea
and ate several slices of thick bread and butter with relish. Cousin
Becky occupied the seat at his mother's right hand, and Polly sat
opposite. Mr. Trent was not present, for he did not, as a rule, leave
the office till six o'clock.

"I have not been outside the door all day," Polly remarked in a
slightly desponding tone, after she had listened to her brother's
account of the fun he and his schoolmates had enjoyed in the playground
that afternoon, "and I do love walking in snow."

"You know you have a slight cold, my dear," Mrs. Trent said, "and I did
not want you to run the risk of making it worse."

"Besides, my boots leak," Polly muttered under her breath, "so I could
not have gone out anyway."

Mrs. Trent glanced quickly at Cousin Becky, but apparently she had not
heard the little girl's complaint, for she was giving her attention
to Roger, who was answering a question she had put to him about his
school. A look of relief crossed Mrs. Trent's face, seeing which Polly
grew suddenly ashamed of her discontentment, and would have given
anything to have been able to recall the words which she realised must
have grieved her mother to hear; she well knew she would not have had
leaky boots if such a state of things could have been remedied.

After tea the children sat at one end of the table preparing their
lessons for the following day. Up to the present Polly had been
educated by her mother, but it was hoped she would be able to be sent
to school later on—to which day she was looking forward with much
pleasure, for she had but a dull time of it at home, poor little
girl, and she was far more inclined than her brother to chafe against
the circumstances of her life. On one occasion she had overheard it
remarked to her mother that it was a shame Mr. Marsh did not give his
brother-in-law a larger salary for his services, and she had secretly
felt a deep sense of resentment against her uncle ever since. Then,
too, she disliked her aunt, because that lady did not own sufficient
tact to confer her favours in a different manner; and she despised
Edgar because his mother petted and spoilt him. So, it must be
confessed that poor Polly had but little affection for those relations
outside her own household. But the little girl forgot her grievances
when, later on, and lessons finished, she and her brother drew their
chairs near the fire and Cousin Becky entered into conversation with
them, encouraging them to talk of themselves. Before the evening was
over the visitor had gained a clear insight into the character of her
young cousins, and had learnt a great deal about the family at the
Rookery.

Seeing the children were entertaining her guest, Mrs. Trent by-and-by
left the room in search of Louisa, whom she found in the kitchen
carefully drying Roger's second-best suit of clothes before the fire.

"I'm drying the things slowly so that they shan't shrink," Louisa
explained. "Isn't master come yet, ma'am?" she inquired as she glanced
at her mistress' face.

"No, and I cannot imagine what's keeping him; he generally comes
straight home from the office. I cannot help being nervous, for I know
something unusual must have happened to have detained him. It is past
eight o'clock. Supposing he should have met with an accident? I expect
the streets are like glass to-night."

"I wouldn't go to meet trouble if I were you, ma'am," advised Louisa.
She had been in Mrs. Trent's service for several years, and had
insisted on accompanying the family to Princess Street, having declared
nothing should induce her to leave the mistress to whom she was deeply
attached. "You're too anxious, ma'am, that comes of having had so many
troubles, I expect; but if anything had happened to the master you
would have been the first to have been informed of it. There! Surely
that's his step in the hall."

It was, and Mrs. Trent's face brightened immediately. She hastened into
the hall, where she found her husband divesting himself of his overcoat.

"I'm late, for we're a hand short at the office," he explained, "and
I've had extra work to do. I hope you haven't been anxious, Mary? Yes?
That was foolish of you, my dear. How have you been getting on with
Cousin Becky?"

"Very well indeed. I have taken a great liking to her, Martin, for she
seems so simple-hearted and sincere. She has been doing some mending
for me, she begged me to find her some work."

"John mentioned her to me this afternoon," Mr. Trent said, lowering his
voice. "He said he considered we'd acted unwisely in inviting her here
and that we should probably see we had made a mistake. However, Janie's
coming to call on her, and I believe she's to be invited to the Rookery
to spend a day. It made my blood boil to hear the tone John adopted in
speaking of her—as though she was of no account because she's a poor
relation. If Fortune had smiled on us, Mary—" Mr. Trent paused, then
added a trifle huskily, "God's will be done. If Fortune had smiled on
us, perhaps we might have been unsympathetic too."

CHAPTER VI

"SHOWING OFF"

Cousin Becky had been nearly a week at Beaworthy when, one afternoon,
Mrs. Marsh called to see her. It was on a Saturday, and Polly and
Roger had gone for a walk as the weather was beautifully fine and dry,
so they were absent during their aunt's visit and were not told much
concerning it, though they would have liked to have known all that had
been said.

"I do wonder what Cousin Becky thinks of Aunt Janie," Polly said to her
brother. "I don't like to ask her, but I should dearly like to know."

But the old lady did not say what she thought of Mrs. Marsh, so Polly's
curiosity remained unsatisfied; nor, after the few hours she and Mrs.
Trent spent at the Rookery one afternoon of the following week, did she
have many remarks to make about the home of her well-to-do cousin, but
she expressed an interest in Edgar, with whom she had apparently been
somewhat favourably impressed. "He seems a manly little fellow," she
said, "and I hope his mother will not spoil him by over-indulgence."

"I fear she has done that already," Mrs. Trent replied gravely, "for he
is a very wayward and disobedient boy, and he is always making mischief
with the servants; he treats them in a most disrespectful manner, from
all accounts."

"And he tells stories," declared Polly. "Doesn't he, Roger?"

"Y-e-s," Roger answered reluctantly. "I don't think he means any harm
by it, and I don't know that he would tell a big lie, but he does tell
a lot of little fibs, and Aunt Janie knows it too, for the last time I
was at the Rookery she kept on saying to him, 'Oh, Edgar, dearie, I do
wish you would learn to speak the truth!'"

It was impossible not to smile as Roger imitated so exactly the
plaintive tone in which his aunt was in the habit of reproving her son;
but Cousin Becky became serious again almost immediately.

"It is a terrible thing to be untruthful," she said gravely, "and I
believe that, as a rule, one who tells little fibs, as Roger calls
them, will not hesitate to utter a big lie when occasion arises. Do you
see much of Edgar?" she inquired of Roger.

"Not much, Cousin Becky, and before we went to school I hardly ever had
anything to do with him. Sometimes he walks as far as the corner of the
street with me now, but I never ask him to come here, for he doesn't
like our house."

"It's not grand enough for him," said Polly, tossing her head, "and I'm
sure we don't want him here. I can't bear him."

"Oh, he's all right in his way, Polly," said her brother. "I think he's
rather nicer than he was at the beginning of the term; there's a lot of
fun in him, really. He said something yesterday about asking me to tea
at the Rookery on Saturday; he said he would speak to Aunt Janie about
it. I wonder if he will."

"Oh, I daresay!" Polly returned in a would-be indifferent tone as she
speculated whether an invitation would be extended to her too.

However, that was not to be the case, for when Saturday came Roger only
was asked to the Rookery, and the little girl found herself left out in
the cold. She was vastly indignant, though she would not for the world
have acknowledged as much; she felt she had been slighted, and, to make
the matter worse, her father condoled with her on having to remain at
home, whereupon Roger said carelessly:

"Oh, she doesn't mind, father! She doesn't like Edgar, so it wouldn't
be much fun for her, anyway."

Polly was on the brink of tears, for though she certainly did not like
her cousin, it would have been a great treat for her to have spent
a few hours at the Rookery; and she much desired to see the "winter
garden," as her uncle called the greenhouse where he grew hyacinths,
primulas, cyclamens, heaths, and various other flowers which flourish
under glass in early spring. She kept silence, however, and hoped no
one noticed her disappointment, for she was successful in blinking away
the tears which, against her will, had risen to her eyes.

When Roger arrived at the Rookery, he found that his aunt and uncle had
gone away to spend the day; but Edgar, who had been on the look-out for
him and met him at the front door, appeared to think they would have a
much more enjoyable time on that account, "for now we shall be able to
do exactly as we like," he said gleefully, adding that his mother had
given orders that they were to have whatever they pleased for tea.

It was a lovely February day with a touch of spring in the air, for the
weather, after a short spell of frost, had turned milder, so the boys
spent most of the afternoon in the gardens and outbuildings connected
with the house. Roger was charmed with the flowers in the winter garden
and would have liked to have remained longer to admire their manifold
beauties, but Edgar grew impatient and hurried him away. From thence
they visited the stable, where the visitor was allowed to smooth the
sleek sides of the pair of horses which he longed to be able to drive
and, much to the amusement of a groom who stood by chewing a straw, he
confessed his ambition to be a coachman when he should be grown-up. The
idea seemed to tickle the fancy of Edgar, for he laughed immoderately.

"Why, Roger, you'd have to wear livery if you were a coachman," he
reminded his cousin.

"Of course," Roger answered. "I shouldn't mind that. What are you
laughing at? I love horses, and—"

"And they love you, sir," interposed the groom good-naturedly; "animals
know those who like them. Look at that now!"

One of the horses had turned his head and was rubbing his nose against
Roger's sleeve.

The little boy was very reluctant to leave the stable; but Edgar
declared that he was hungry and wanted his tea, so they went into
the house, where they found a most tempting repast awaiting them in
the dining-room—a repast which, to the visitor, appeared all that
any reasonable person could desire, though Edgar did a great deal of
grumbling. There were two sorts of jam on the table, but the young host
was satisfied with neither and rang the bell, bidding the maid-servant
who answered his summons to bring another kind. Then he complained that
the cake was stale, and that the bread and butter was not cut thin
enough—Roger thought the cake was delicious, and the bread and butter,
if anything, too thin—and at length the servant grew exasperated and
told him he was a foolish boy to try to show off before his cousin, a
remark which made him very angry indeed.

"I shall tell mother how impertinent she's been and get her dismissed!"
he exclaimed as the young woman left the room. "She had no business to
speak to me in such a manner as that."

"I think you were trying to show off, though," Roger told him candidly,
"for really it's a beautiful cake, and the bread and butter is much
thinner than we ever have it at home, even if we have strangers to tea.
Yes, I'll have a little more strawberry jam, please. I'm making a very
good tea."

So was Edgar, though he would not admit it. He felt exceedingly
humiliated, for he had desired to make Roger believe that the servants
of the household were under his control, and he had certainly not
succeeded in his attempt. For a short while he looked extremely cross;
but he soon brightened up after tea, when he led the way into his
father's study, and exhibited to his companion a collection of coins,
and another of foreign stamps, both of which he represented to be his
own. As a matter-of-fact that was perfectly untrue, and he had no right
to show either the coins or the stamps without his father's permission.
Of course, Roger did not know that, and he began to look on his cousin
as a person of property.

"I wonder you don't sell some of those stamps if they're worth such
a heap of money as you say," he said, as he watched Edgar replace
the stamps in the cabinet from which he had taken them, "I am sure I
should."

"But, you see, I don't want the money," Edgar reminded him.

"No, I suppose not."

The coins were kept in the shallow drawers of another cabinet which
Edgar had unlocked with a key—one of a bunch he had taken from a desk
on the writing-table. He would not permit Roger to touch them, only to
look, and afterwards he locked the drawers and returned the keys to the
exact spot where he had found them. Then he took up a cigarette case
which he opened and offered to Roger.

"Have one?" he asked with an assumption of carelessness.

"No, thank you," Roger responded, laughing, for he had not taken the
offer seriously; "I don't smoke."

"I do," was the astounding reply, as Edgar selected a cigarette from
the case and proceeded to light it with a wax match he took from a
match-box which he produced from his pocket. Roger watched him take two
or three whiffs in silence, dumbfounded at the sight. At last he cried
wonderingly:

"Fancy Uncle John allowing you to smoke! Aren't you afraid of being
sick?"

"No; you see, I'm used to it," Edgar replied, a flush rising to his
cheeks. "You may as well try a cigarette, you'll enjoy it."

"No, thank you. Of course I know lots of the boys at the Grammar School
do smoke—on the sly; but father said he hoped I never would, and I
promised him I wouldn't."

"Oh, well, my father said something of the same kind, but I didn't
promise one way or the other. He's never found me out yet—"

"Then he doesn't know. Oh, Edgar, how wrong of you! How can you bear to
do it? Do put the cigarette down."

"Nonsense!" Edgar smoked on more out of a spirit of bravado than
because he was enjoying the cigarette. He did not indulge in a second,
however. "Look here, don't you go home and tell anyone I've been
smoking," he said as he noted the expression of disapproval on his
cousin's tell-tale countenance, "for you'll get me into a row if you
do. Father's awfully against boys smoking."

"Then do say you won't smoke again, Edgar. It's awfully wrong of you,
really."

"Oh, I shall be careful I'm not found out. I shouldn't smoke here if
mother and father were at home, but I often do in my own room. Why, you
look quite shocked! What a young innocent you are!"

"I'm no younger than you—that is, not much, only a few months. But, I
say, Edgar, you really oughtn't to smoke if Uncle John doesn't wish you
to; it's deceiving him;" and Roger spoke very seriously.

"Well, I daresay you deceive your father sometimes—"

"Indeed I don't."

"Because you're afraid of being found out!" Edgar cried scornfully. "I
never guessed before that you were such a coward!"

"I'm not a coward!" Roger retorted, growing red with indignation. "But
I wouldn't try to deceive father even if there was no fear of his
finding it out. God would know, anyway. Mother says we should never do
anything we wouldn't like Him to know. You have no right to call me a
coward—"

"I didn't really mean it, so don't let us quarrel," Edgar broke in
hastily. "Oh," he exclaimed as Roger suddenly declared it was time for
him to leave, "don't go yet! It is quite early."

"It's half-past six," Roger replied, glancing at the brass face of an
old-fashioned clock in a black oak case, which stood against the wall
near the writing-table, "and mother said I was to be back by seven. It
will take me quite half an hour to get home."

"You won't tell about my smoking, will you?" questioned Edgar anxiously
as he followed his cousin out of the room into the hall.

"No, of course I won't," was the reassuring response, "I wouldn't be
such a sneak as that. Good-bye, Edgar. Thank you for asking me to
tea—it was a jolly nice tea, too, and I enjoyed it awfully. Good-bye."

Edgar stood at the front door and watched his late companion out
of sight. He was growing to like Roger more than any of his other
school-fellows, and he had the sense to see that he had made no
favourable impression upon him by the manner in which he had set his
father's command at defiance, and he heartily wished he had not smoked
that cigarette. He was uneasily conscious that the other boy knew that
he had only been "showing off."

CHAPTER VII

SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT THE ROOKERY

Polly and Roger Trent always looked forward with the greatest pleasure
to Sunday, for they generally spent the afternoon of that day in
their father's company. If the weather was fine he took them for a
long walk in the country, past the clay works which lay directly on
the outskirts of Beaworthy, to the beautiful lanes and woods beyond;
if, on the contrary, it was wet and they were obliged to remain in
the house, he read to them or told them stories. In that way they had
become familiar with Bible history before they could read themselves;
and at a little later date they had listened to the entrancing history
of "The Pilgrim's Progress." They had followed Christian's journey with
all its dangers and difficulties along the King's highway right onward
to the celestial city; they had gloried in the fight between Christian
and Apollyon in the valley of Humiliation, and had insisted every time
their father had recounted it to them of a minute description of the
fiend—the monster hideous to behold, clothed with scales like a fish,
and wings like a dragon, and feet like a horse, and a mouth like a
lion! And they had shed bitter tears over the martyrdom of Faithful,
though they had never failed to brighten at the account of the chariot
and horses which had borne him with the sound of trumpet through the
clouds to the celestial gate into the presence of the King in His
beauty.

"I hate Sundays," Edgar Marsh had told Roger on one occasion, much
to the latter's surprise; "it's such a stupid day. I go to church
with mother and father in the morning, I don't mind that; but in the
afternoon I never know what to do with myself: father generally shuts
himself up in his study and tells me not to bother him—I suppose he
goes to sleep—and mother reads in the drawing-room. Don't you hate
Sundays, too?"

"No, indeed!" Roger had answered; and then he had told a great deal
about the delightful Sunday afternoons he was in the habit of spending,
and Edgar had listened more than a little enviously.

The afternoon following Roger's visit to the Rookery found Edgar in
a very discontented state of mind. As usual, his father had betaken
himself to his study, and his mother had settled herself comfortably
in an easy chair near the drawing-room fire, a book of sermons in her
hand. The little boy, standing disconsolately by the window, looking
out on the velvety lawn, the grass of which was beginning to spring
fresh and green, was debating how he should pass the two hours which
must elapse before tea-time, when Mrs. Marsh inquired:

"Why do you not take a book and read, my dear? There are some very
pretty stories suitable for Sunday reading in that book I gave you for
a New Year's present."

"I hate reading," was the ill-tempered response, "especially babyish
stories; and I hate Sundays—"

"It's very naughty of you to say so," Mrs. Marsh interposed
reprovingly, shaking her head at him.

"I do hate Sundays," he persisted, "because I never know what to do,
and you won't let me play. Uncle Martin takes Polly and Roger for walks
on Sunday afternoons, or tells them stories—stories with some sense in
them. I wish my father was like Uncle Martin; but father never goes for
walks or—"

"You must remember he is an older man than your uncle," Mrs. Marsh
broke in quickly, "and he is so wrapped up in business affairs that he
has little time to spare for anything else."

"But he doesn't do business on Sunday, mother."

"No, on Sunday he is glad to rest—Sunday is the day of rest, you know.
Your father works very hard all the week."

"So does Uncle Martin—much harder than father, I believe. Is that an
interesting book you're reading, mother? Won't you read it to me?"

"I am afraid you would not like it; you would not understand it. Come
and sit by the fire and tell me how you and Roger amused yourselves
yesterday afternoon."

"I took him all over the place," Edgar said as he seated himself
in a chair near his mother's. "He likes to see the gardens and the
greenhouses—he seems awfully fond of flowers—and he's quite crazy
about horses: says he'd like to be a coachman when he grows up. He
enjoyed his tea tremendously, and afterwards we—we just stuck about and
talked," he concluded vaguely.

"Did he say when Cousin Becky leaves?" Mrs. Marsh inquired.

"No. I don't think she's going yet, she's only been there about a
fortnight, you know, and Roger said he hoped she'd stay much longer.
They all like her so much, and she isn't a bit in the way; I asked
Roger if she was, and he said no; he wished she was going to stay
altogether. Did you ever read 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' mother?" he
asked with an abrupt change of the subject.

"Yes, years ago, when I was a little girl; I believe there is an old
copy in the house somewhere."

"Has it pictures in it?" Edgar questioned eagerly.

"No, I think not. Why?"

"Because there are pictures in Uncle Martin's—Roger told me about them.
There's one of a great wicked monster all over scales and breathing out
fire and smoke."

"I suppose you mean Apollyon?"

"Yes, that's his name, I'd forgotten it. And there's a picture of
a hideous giant called Giant Despair who lives in a castle called
Doubting Castle. Roger says 'The Pilgrim's Progress' is all about
wonderful adventures, and I like stories of that sort best of all. Oh,
mother, I do wish you'd get me a copy of the book with pictures and
read it to me on Sunday afternoons!"

"Certainly, you shall have the book if you wish it, dearie."

"And you'll read it to me, mother?" he coaxed.

"You lazy boy!" she admonished, with her indulgent smile. "Why cannot
you read it yourself?"

"It would be so much nicer if you read it to me," he declared
earnestly, "then we could talk about it afterwards like Uncle Martin
does with Polly and Roger. Do promise, mother."

So she promised, and Edgar looked jubilant. For the first time it
struck Mrs. Marsh that her little son lacked congenial society in his
own home. She had always indulged him and given him everything for
which he had expressed a desire, but she had never made a companion
of him; for, as a rich man's wife, she took a foremost place in the
town and her life was given up to social claims. She determined now,
however, that for the future she would, at any rate, devote her Sunday
afternoons to her boy as her brother devoted his to his children.

"I'll order the book to-morrow," she said, "a well-illustrated copy
which I hope will come up to your expectations, Edgar."

At that moment the door opened to admit the master of the house, who
entered the room with a frown on his brow which denoted displeasure.

"Edgar, did you meddle with anything in my study yesterday?" he
interrogated, fixing a searching glance on his son.

"No, father," Edgar promptly replied, secretly very alarmed, though he
met his father's gaze with an immovable face.

"But you and your cousin were there during the evening—I have
ascertained that from the servants. Come, speak the truth. Were you
smoking?"

"No, father." The response was not quite so unfaltering this time.

"Then how comes it several cigarettes are gone from here?" Mr. Marsh
inquired, producing the case from which Edgar had helped himself on the
preceding evening.

"I—I only smoked one," Edgar confessed. After Roger had left he
had returned to the study and taken several more cigarettes—under
the deluded idea that his father would not miss them—which he had
subsequently hidden in his own room. "Oh, father, please don't look so
angry! It really and truly was only one!"

"Then who smoked the others? Your cousin, I suppose. Why did you
not speak the truth and own what you two had been doing instead of
uttering such a daring falsehood? How often have I told you of my great
abhorrence of small boys smoking?"

"I am very sorry," faltered Edgar, alarmed at the severity of Mr.
Marsh's tone.

"Oh, John, you must overlook his naughtiness this time, and forgive
him!" broke in Mrs. Marsh eagerly; "he won't smoke again, will you,
Edgar, darling?"

"No, mother," the boy responded, watching his father anxiously, "I
won't."

"There, John, you hear that!" she exclaimed.

"I'm afraid Edgar's word is not to be trusted," Mr. Marsh observed
dryly. "I'm exceedingly angry with him, and he ought to be severely
punished."

"But not on a Sunday, John. Remember the day. You must forgive him this
once, and I'm sure he'll keep his word and never smoke again. Besides,
it was quite as naughty of Roger, and it would not be fair to punish
one boy without the other. When boys get together they always lead each
other into mischief."

"Please forgive me, father," murmured Edgar.

"You should have owned the truth at once," Mr. Marsh told him gravely,
"nothing angers me so much as to catch you in a lie. Well—" he looked
dubiously from mother to son—"I suppose I must forgive you this time
and not punish you, though I'm not certain I'm doing my duty in
letting the matter pass so easily. I hope, Janie," he added, pointedly
addressing his wife, "that you will give Edgar a good talking to; and
remember Roger Trent is never to come here again unless you are at
home."

Mrs. Marsh heaved a sigh of intense relief as her husband went away,
shutting the door behind him; and then she gave her son the good
talking to which she had been advised to administer. She told him never
to be tempted to smoke again on any account, for if he did and his
father found it out, she knew he would never be dealt with so leniently
a second time. "You have heard your father frequently speak of the
great objection he has to boys smoking," she said, "so I cannot imagine
what made you do it. You are terribly disobedient, Edgar, and so
dreadfully untruthful, too. It is not as if you had never been taught
the wickedness of telling stories, and I am sure I am always begging
you to speak the truth. It makes me very unhappy to think we cannot
take your word."

Mrs. Marsh looked so distressed that Edgar, who was really fond of
her, felt a sincere pang of regret shoot through his selfish little
heart. He recalled how often she had concealed his misdoings from his
father—better for him if she had not—and how she had pleaded that he
might not be punished to-day, and his glance rested on her with an
expression of grateful affection.

"I will try to be more truthful," he said earnestly; "do believe me,
mother, I really will."

"That's my own dear, good boy," she responded tenderly, "you'll make
mother so happy if you'll only learn to speak the truth. Mind, I cannot
interfere between you and your father if he ever discovers you've been
smoking again; and, remember, although he's very indulgent and kind to
you, he can be very severe at times."

"I'll remember," Edgar replied; "promise you I won't smoke again." His
spirits were beginning to rise. He had listened patiently to all his
mother had had to say, and he knew she would not revert to it—she was
not in the habit of dwelling on unpleasant subjects. But he did not
consider it worth while to explain that his cousin had not smoked as
well as himself, nor did he confess to the possession of the cigarettes
which he had hidden in his room, for he quite intended to throw them
away.

CHAPTER VIII

COUSIN BECKY FINDS A HOME

"Polly, do you know I have been here a month to-day?"

It was about four o'clock on a fine March afternoon, and Cousin Becky
sat on a chair near the sitting-room window, her busy fingers employed
in sewing, whilst occasionally her sharp dark eyes strayed from her
work to the only other occupant of the room—Polly—who was reading a
story-book.

"Yes, Cousin Becky," Polly answered, closing her book, in which she
was not very interested, and coming to the window, where she stood
examining a pot of crocuses, just opening into flower, which she had
cherished through the winter and which now graced the window sill.
"How the time has flown, to be sure! It doesn't seem nearly so long—at
least, not to me."

[Illustration: COUSIN BECKY AND POLLY.]

"Nor to me either. I have never thanked you for giving up your room to
me, my dear; in fact, I did not know you had done so until a few days
ago when Roger—"

"Oh, Roger should not have told you!" Polly broke in, looking vexed.

"I am very glad he did. I feel very grateful to you, Polly."

"I have been quite comfortable in the attic; it is really a nice big
room, only of course it has a sloping roof and the window is rather
small and high in the wall! I have grown to like it, indeed I have."

"Still, you will be glad to get back to your own little room, I expect?"

"No; because then you will be gone, and I shan't like that."

There was a ring of sincerity in the little girl's voice which brought
an exceedingly tender expression into her companion's eyes.

"I was speaking to your parents about my departure this morning,"
Cousin Becky said after a brief silence, "and they asked me to extend
my visit."

"Oh, I do hope you will!" Polly cried, her countenance brightening.

"Then you have not found your old cousin much in the way, my dear?"

"In the way? No, indeed! We have simply loved to have you with us, and
we shall miss you dreadfully when you go; I heard mother say so to
father yesterday."

"Perhaps I may not go just yet. I am very fond of you all, Polly; and
I like your home, and I have accounted it a privilege to be here.
You know, I have no home of my own, and I thought of making one at
Beaworthy; but I am doubtful still what my plans for the future will
be. I am naturally a sociable person, and I dread the thought of living
alone. Your mother and father have asked me to remain here, at any rate
for the present, and I have gladly consented to do so. I am going to
pay a small sum weekly for my board, so that I shall not be a burden
on my kind relations; but, on the other hand, the sum will not be
sufficiently large for them to get any profit by me. So you see, child,
you are not going to get rid of me so soon as you thought."

"I am very glad," Polly asserted heartily. "Do you mean you are going
to live with us altogether, Cousin Becky?"

"I mean that your dear parents have told me that I may always look
upon their house as my home—as one spot in the world where I shall be
welcome."

"How pleased Roger will be!" the little girl cried earnestly.

"The only thing is, Polly, I do not like taking your room—"

"Oh, please don't trouble about that, Cousin Becky! Indeed, you need
not. I don't feel a bit lonely in my attic, for I'm next door to
Louisa, and I can look out of the window if I stand on a box. Really, I
quite like my attic, now. Oh!" she exclaimed with sudden excitement in
her tone, "I do believe that's mother coming—at last!"

Earlier in the afternoon news had been brought to Mrs. Trent that there
had been an accident to a labourer in the clay pits. The man—Caleb
Glubb by name—had married a servant of the Trents some years before,
and Mrs. Trent had gone to ascertain the true facts of the case. As
Polly spoke, her mother appeared in sight, and a few minutes later she
entered the house and came immediately into the sitting-room.

"Is Caleb much hurt?" Polly inquired, glancing anxiously at her
mother's face, which wore an expression of grave concern.

"Yes, Polly, I am afraid he is," was the reply. "I found poor Sarah
Glubb in terrible grief, for they had taken her husband to the
hospital, and she had no one to leave with the children whilst she went
to make inquiries about him. Four little ones she has," Mrs. Trent
explained to Cousin Becky, who was listening attentively, "the youngest
not two months old. So I remained with the children whilst Sarah went
to the hospital. Poor soul, she returned almost heart-broken, for her
husband has been very badly injured—a quantity of clay fell on him and
crushed him badly—and the doctors say, even if he recovers, he will be
unable to work for many weeks, or perhaps months; and, meanwhile, there
are four little mouths for Sarah to find food for. Oh dear, oh dear!"
and the tears swam in Mrs. Trent's eyes as she spoke, "what I would
give if I were only rich!"

"Then perhaps you wouldn't give much," Cousin Becky remarked a little
dryly.

"Oh, Cousin Becky," cried Polly reproachfully, "I am sure mother would!"

"It is generally poor people who help each other," the old lady said,
nodding her head sagely. "Does the injured man work for Mr. Marsh?" she
inquired.

"Yes," Mrs. Trent assented, "and I suppose he will get compensation for
his injuries under the Workmen's Compensation Act; but, meanwhile—"

"Meanwhile, of course, Mr. Marsh will see his family is provided with
necessaries?"

"I don't know that he will. Men frequently meet with accidents in
the clay pits, but I don't think John interests himself in them
individually. Ah, here's Roger!" she exclaimed, as her little son burst
into the room.

"Mother, have you heard what's happened to Sarah's husband?" he cried
excitedly.

"Yes, my dear," she answered, "I have been to see Sarah and know all
about the accident. The Glubbs have been unable to lay aside anything
against a rainy day," she continued, again addressing Cousin Becky,
"for they have had to contend against sickness; and last winter, owing
to the wet season, the men were often unable to work in the clay pits.
I do not know how poor Sarah will manage to feed her children or keep a
roof above their heads now."

"There is One who will not forget them," Cousin Becky said softly.

"Can't we help them, mother?" Roger asked. Then as Mrs. Trent looked
dubious, he proceeded eagerly, "Oh, surely we can do something? I'll go
without sugar in my tea and eat bread and butter only for tea without
any cake or jam, and then you'll be able to save that out of your
house-keeping money, won't you? And I'll give up my pocket-money too."

"That's only twopence a week, Roger," Polly reminded him.

"Still, that would be a little help, wouldn't it?" he asked, appealing
to his mother.

"Certainly it would," she replied, "if you desire to help poor Sarah
you most certainly shall."

"And I too!" Polly cried eagerly.

"Both of you," agreed Mrs. Trent; "we will all see what we can do. I am
glad my children desire to bear other people's burdens. But I wish we
had more to give."

"Do you remember what the Pilgrims saw on Mount Charity?" asked Cousin
Becky, regarding her young cousins with her bright smile. "I heard your
father reading that part of 'The Pilgrim's Progress' to you on Sunday."

"Of course we remember," Roger answered quickly; "the pilgrims saw a
man with a bundle of cloth lying before him, out of which he kept on
cutting garments for the poor, but his bundle of cloth was never the
less."

"And the pilgrims were told that he who has a heart to give shall never
want himself," Cousin Becky said; "I think if people oftener remembered
that they would be more open-hearted—and open-handed."

"Oh, Roger." cried Polly, with sudden recollection, "do you know Cousin
Becky isn't going to leave us after all? She's going to live with us."

"Really?" he exclaimed, his face expressive of mingled pleasure and
surprise. "Well, I am glad!" and he impulsively flung his arms around
the old lady and gave her a hearty kiss.

"You are all so kind to me, and have made me so happy," Cousin Becky
murmured, in a slightly tremulous tone, much touched by the little
boy's spontaneous act of affection; "I felt such a lonely old woman
that night I arrived here a month ago your welcome warmed and cheered
my heart as nothing else could have done."

"This will be your home too, now," Roger remarked reflectively; "you
see, mother, father was right: Cousin Becky is satisfied with our ways."

When Mr. Trent returned at six o'clock, he brought the news that Caleb
Glubb had rallied somewhat, and it was now hoped his life would be
spared. "I called at the hospital on my way home from the office," he
explained, "and made inquiries. I am glad you have been to see Sarah,"
he said to his wife. "We must try to help her in any little way we can."

And during the days which followed, the Trents found various ways
of assisting their old servant out of their slender means, by small
acts of self-sacrifice ungrudgingly rendered; and Cousin Becky busied
herself in mending some garments of Polly's which the little girl had
outgrown, for the use of poor Sarah's children.

"Do you know, Sarah tells me that on each Saturday morning since her
husband's accident, she has received a postal order for a sovereign,"
Mrs. Trent informed the others one evening, a few weeks later. "It
has always come by post, from Beaworthy, anonymously, and she cannot
imagine who it is that sends it. It flashed through my mind it might be
Janie; but, if so, why should she send it anonymously?"

"Oh, it isn't Aunt Janie, because she didn't even know about the
accident till this afternoon," rejoined Roger. "I met her in the town,
and she spoke to me, and asked for you all, and especially for Cousin
Becky. I told her Cousin Becky was making up some clothing for Sarah's
children—she remembered Sarah when she lived with us as cook, but she
hadn't heard of the accident to Caleb. I wonder Uncle John hadn't told
her. So, you see, it isn't Aunt Janie who sends the postal orders."

"Perhaps it's Uncle John," suggested Polly.

"He would not send them anonymously. No, it is some good fairy," said
Mrs. Trent with a smile, "who does not wish to be known. Well, the
money is proving a great blessing and is going where it is really
required."

"I told Aunt Janie that Cousin Becky is going to stay on with us,"
Roger remarked. "She was awfully astonished."

"Why? What did she say?" asked Polly, her curiosity aroused.

"She said, 'I am utterly amazed!' and she looked it," the little boy
answered, with emphasis in his tone.

Cousin Becky gave a soft involuntary laugh, which made everyone glance
at her with surprise. She was apparently intensely amused, for her
eyes were dancing with merriment. She had improved both in health
and spirits during the few weeks she had been at Beaworthy, and was
evidently quite contented and happy. A cheerful soul was Cousin Becky,
one of those who are like a gleam of sunshine in the house, one whose
very presence was invigorating. Mrs. Trent had discovered already that
Cousin Becky knew a great deal more about the management of a small
income than she did herself, and was always ready with advice or help,
if either was wanted; and the children had found out that the old lady
could, and was willing to, assist them in the preparation of their
lessons.

"Why, how clever she is!" Roger had exclaimed on one occasion,
after Cousin Becky had helped him with his Latin. "She knows about
everything, it seems to me, and yet she's not a bit stuck up."

Even Louisa had her word of praise for the new inmate of the household.
"She's the most helpful body I ever knew," she confided to her
mistress. "She gives no trouble at all, and I'm really glad she's going
to stay."

CHAPTER IX

A MORNING WALK

It was April, and the boys of the Beaworthy Grammar School were having
a fortnight's vacation, only a few days of which had passed as yet,
so that it greatly astonished Polly and Roger Trent to be informed by
their cousin, whom they met in the town one morning, that he wished the
holidays were over.

"Are you so fond of work, then?" Polly questioned, in her surprise.

"No, certainly not," he answered, regarding her sharply to see if
she was laughing at him, "but I've nothing to do. Mother has several
visitors staying in the house, all grown-up people, and they're no fun
whatever, and I've no one to talk to or play with. Where are you two
off?" he asked, glancing at the big basket the little girl was carrying.

"We are going gathering primroses," Roger explained. "Would you—" He
hesitated, looking inquiringly at his sister; then, as she nodded, he
continued: "Would you like to go with us?"

"I don't mind if I do," Edgar responded condescendingly.

"You needn't if you don't care about it," Polly said quickly, "we can
do quite well without you."

"Oh, I want to go with you," Edgar assured her; "I should like the
walk, but I don't care about the primroses. I have heaps of flowers at
home."

"I suppose you have," said Polly with a faint sigh, "but we have none,
you know. The gardens at the Rookery must be looking lovely now with
all the spring flowers in bloom; I remember last year you had a lot of
daffodils—beauties!"

"So we have now; you ought to come and see them, Polly." There was a
wistful expression in the little girl's countenance which somewhat
touched her cousin, and he remembered what a long time had passed since
she had paid a visit to his home. "Why don't you come?" he continued.
"Mother would be very glad to see you, you know."

"Would she? I don't know so much about that," Polly responded bluntly,
with a short laugh; "if Aunt Janie wanted to see me she'd invite me to
the Rookery, I shouldn't think of going there otherwise."

There was an awkward pause in the conversation after this. The children
were, by now, nearing the outskirts of the town, and coming to the clay
works, which formed the chief industry of the neighbourhood. The high
road adjoining the works had a row of labourers' cottages on either
side, with small gardens in front.

"That's where our old servant, Sarah Glubb, lives," said Roger,
indicating one of these dwellings; "and, look! There's Sarah herself in
the doorway."

"Oh, I must speak to her for a minute!" cried Polly. "I know it was
visiting-day at the hospital yesterday, so for certain she saw her
husband then; I want to ask her how he is."

Sarah—a neat, pleasant-faced woman—stood with her baby in her arms.
She smiled at the children as they approached, and they stood talking
to her a short while—at least, Polly and Roger talked, whilst Edgar
listened. As Polly had imagined, Sarah had been to see her husband on
the preceding day, and had been cheered to find him much better.

"The nurse told me the doctor considers Caleb will be able to come home
in about another fortnight," she said happily; "but I am afraid it will
be some weeks longer before he will be strong enough to work in the
clay pits," she added, her countenance clouding slightly.

"Does your good fairy still remember you, Sarah?" Polly questioned
anxiously.

"Yes, miss," Sarah answered, a radiant smile driving the gloom from
her face, "so perhaps she—or maybe it's he—will go on helping me till
my man's able to work for me and the little ones again. I only wish I
knew who it is that is being such a friend to me, that I do. God bless
whoever it is, I say—aye, and He will."

"What did you mean about a good fairy, Polly?" questioned Edgar as
soon as he and his cousins were out of Sarah's hearing. "There are no
fairies nowadays."

"There's one who sends a present to Sarah every week," Polly responded
gravely. "Isn't there, Roger?"

Roger nodded, and meeting each other's eyes the sister and brother
laughed. Edgar looked vexed, for he had an idea his companions were
poking fun at him, and he stood much on his dignity. However, Roger
promptly explained that Polly had referred to an unknown person who had
befriended Sarah by sending her a pound every week since her husband's
accident. Edgar was much interested, and expressed great astonishment
that the generous donor should desire to remain unknown, for, as he
said, most people who gave anything away liked to be thanked.

They were leaving the clay works—deep pits where scores of men were at
work digging clay or pumping up water—behind them, and ten minutes more
walking brought them to the woods, which were carpeted with moss and
primroses on this beautiful spring day. Polly's basket was soon filled
with the pale, delicately-scented flowers; and then the three young
people sat down to rest at the foot of a beech tree, and the little
girl drew a good-sized package from a capacious pocket in her skirt,
and proceeded to open it with an air of triumph.

"There, boys!" she exclaimed, as she revealed a large lump of home-made
cake. "You didn't know I'd brought lunch with me, but aren't you glad?
I'd have cut a bigger bit if I'd known Edgar was going to be with us.
Where's your knife, Roger? Divide the cake into three slices, please."

"I'm jolly hungry," Roger announced, as he produced his pocket-knife
and proceeded to do his sister's bidding. "I'm just ready for a snack."

"And yet you said you wouldn't want lunch when mother advised you to
take some," Polly reminded him. "I knew better than that, for being
out-of-doors always makes one very hungry. Come, Edgar, take your
share!"

Accustomed though he was to far daintier fare, Edgar enjoyed his slice
of cake, which proved most satisfying. It was very comfortable under
the beech tree, the brown, swelling buds of which were bursting into
leaf, and the young people spent a sociable half-hour, watching the
squirrels in the boughs overhead, and talking confidentially. They
discussed their elders, as children are so fond of doing, and Edgar
informed his cousins how surprised his parents were that Cousin Becky
was to make her home with them in Princess Street.

"Why are they so surprised?" asked Polly, greatly desirous to ascertain
the reason.

"Because Cousin Becky is so poor. Mother said she could understand it
better if she was rich and you could make something out of her, but
what she is going to pay is so little. I think myself that Cousin Becky
is very nice, and I should not mind having her to live with us at the
Rookery. It is a great pity she has not more money. Father says you can
do nothing without money."

This teaching was new to Polly and Roger, who had been taught a far
different creed.

"I suppose you think your father knows everything," the former said,
a trifle irascibly, "but I daresay other people are just as clever as
he is. It must be very, very nice to have money," she proceeded, "but
mother says there are greater blessings than riches, and if we haven't
money to give away we can give what we have—our time, or kind words, or
sympathy, that all counts with God. It's easy to give money if you've
got it. I daresay Uncle John gives away a good bit, doesn't he?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," Edgar answered. "I never heard him say. I
daresay he does, for he has plenty of money, you know."

"Yes, I know," returned Polly, nodding her head sagely, "and so've you,
haven't you? You get a lot of pocket-money, don't you?"

"A shilling a week from father, besides what mother gives me off and
on."

"So much as that? Do you spend it all on yourself? Oh!" she cried as
her cousin nodded. "Fancy that! We get twopence, and Roger had only a
penny a week before he went to school."

"Why don't you ask your father for more?" questioned Edgar
thoughtlessly.

"Because he can't afford to give us more; he would if he could." Polly
rose, and picked up her basket of primroses as she spoke. "I think it's
time we started for home," she said, "for mother told us we were to be
back by one o'clock."

Accordingly the children left the wood and retraced their footsteps
along the high road, Polly carrying her basket very carefully, and
looking admiringly at her flowers every now and then. Edgar gave his
cousins a description of the handsomely illustrated copy of 'The
Pilgrim's Progress' which his mother had procured for him; he seemed
exceedingly pleased with it, and promised to show it to his companions
one day.

They had nearly reached the town when they were overtaken by Mr. Marsh,
who was being driven by a groom in a dog-cart. He had been to the clay
works and was now on his way home.

"Well, young folks," he said good-humouredly as the groom, obeying
his master's order, brought the dog-cart to a standstill, "have you
been for a ramble in the country? All well at home, Polly? Yes. That's
right. You're looking blooming yourself, child, with those bright eyes
and those rosy cheeks. Edgar, you'd better jump up behind and return
with me. Well, Roger, how are you?" he asked. His son climbed into the
back seat of the vehicle as he spoke.

"Very well, thank you, Uncle John," Roger answered, lifting his frank
eyes to meet his uncle's.

"You and your sister should come to the Rookery sometimes during the
holidays," Mr. Marsh said kindly; "but, mind, I'll have no smoking.
Remember that."

"I never do smoke, Uncle John," Roger returned earnestly.

"Tut, tut, that's not true. Hasn't Edgar told you that I found out
what you and he had been doing the last time you were at the Rookery?
I ought to have told your father, perhaps. I am sure he would not like
you to smoke. You hope to grow into a fine, strong man, I suppose?
You'll never be one if you smoke cigarettes at your age. You mark my
words. Good-bye."

The dog-cart passed on, leaving Polly and Roger staring after it, the
former filled with amazement, the latter crimson with indignation.
Edgar waved his hand to them, but they did not respond to his
salutation.

"What did Uncle John mean?" Polly demanded of her brother. "Have you
really been smoking?"

"No, no! How can you think it for a minute!" was the reproachful
response.

"But Uncle John evidently believes you have. He thought, too, that you
told him a story."

"I saw he did." Roger looked utterly miserable. "I can't understand
it," he said. "I have never smoked, indeed I haven't. You know I
promised father I wouldn't."

"Uncle John spoke of the last time you were at the Rookery. Neither he
nor Aunt Janie were at home then, were they?"

"No; Edgar and I spent the afternoon by ourselves. Oh, don't ask me any
more about it," he proceeded imploringly as he saw another question
trembling on his sister's lips. "Uncle John has made a mistake, but—"
passionately—"he had no right to speak to me as he did."

"He did not speak unkindly, only as though he thought you had told him
a story. No, you are not a story-teller, I know that well enough."

"Don't tell them at home what he said, Polly; mother and father would
be so put out—promise you won't."

Polly hesitated; but her brother appeared so distressed that she at
length, very reluctantly, gave the desired promise, feeling puzzled and
uneasy. Why, since Roger had been wrongfully accused, did he not want
the matter cleared up? It did not seem right to her that their uncle
should be allowed to believe what was not true; and her heart was hot
with indignation against him for holding such a bad opinion of her
brother. Never for a moment did she doubt Roger's word herself. Long
she puzzled over the matter, but she asked no more questions, and the
remainder of the walk home passed in silence.

"I've enjoyed the morning, haven't you?" Roger said, as they turned the
corner into Princess Street.

"Oh yes," the little girl assented, "and I was doubtful if we should
when we met Edgar and he said he'd go with us; but I think he really
has improved, he was very nice on the whole to-day. I wish," she added
with a faint sigh, "oh, I do wish we had not seen Uncle John!"

CHAPTER X

BROUGHT TO BOOK

Edgar had heard the accusation his father had brought against Roger,
and he had noted the crimson flush which had spread over the latter's
countenance when his word had been disbelieved, and he was uneasily
conscious that there would have to be a day of reckoning between his
cousin and himself sooner or later. He knew he had been cowardly in
allowing his father to think Roger had joined him in cigarette smoking,
and he wished now he had not held his tongue upon the point.

"I must manage to square Roger, somehow," he thought, "but it won't be
easy. I could see he was awfully angry that father didn't believe him;
he's so very particular about telling the truth."

The two boys did not meet for several days, however; but one morning
Edgar was sent by his mother with a note to Mrs. Trent, inviting Polly
and Roger to spend the following afternoon at the Rookery. His heart
beat fast and unevenly as he stood on the doorsteps of his relations'
house in Princess Street and rang the bell, for he dreaded giving the
explanation he knew Roger would be certain to demand from him; but,
much to his relief of mind, when Louisa opened the door, she informed
him that his young cousins had gone out with Miss Trent and only his
aunt was at home. He was shown into the sitting-room, where Mrs. Trent
came to him; and whilst she was reading his mother's note, he watched
her, thinking how sweet and pretty she looked, for he always admired
and liked Aunt Mary.

Mrs. Trent promptly accepted the invitation for her children which her
sister-in-law's note contained, and she talked to the little boy for a
short while; but he seemed in a hurry to leave, so she did not detain
him long. The fact was, he was glad to have missed Roger, and wanted to
get away before his cousins' return.

Now, it so happened that Roger, coming out of a shop with his sister
and Cousin Becky, caught sight of Edgar, homeward bound, and pointed
him out to his companions.

"I want to speak to him particularly," he said. "May I run and overtake
him, Cousin Becky?"

"Do, my dear," she answered; "but Polly and I will not wait for you as
we have several more errands to execute."

Accordingly, Roger went after Edgar; but he only kept him in sight
and did not overtake him till he had left the town and turned into
the suburban road which led to the Rookery, then he ran up to him,
shouting: "Hi! Stop! Stop!"

Edgar started violently, for he had had no idea of the proximity of his
cousin; he glanced around with a somewhat alarmed expression on his
face as he said in a hurried tone:

"I've just come from Princess Street. You and Polly are to come to tea
with me to-morrow."

"Who says so?" Roger inquired bluntly.

"Aunt Mary. I took a note to her from mother."

"You'll like to come, won't you?" And Edgar regarded the other more
than a trifle anxiously.

"I don't know. Look here, Edgar! What did your father mean the other
day by saying I smoked, and why didn't you speak up for me? Had you
made out to him that I had been smoking cigarettes with you that
afternoon I was at the Rookery, when he and Aunt Janie were away?"

"No, on my honour I had not," was the emphatic response.

"Then, what did he mean?" Roger demanded. "He believed I had been
smoking. Did you know he thought so?"

"I—I—"

"Oh, speak out!" cried Roger, greatly irritated; "don't stammer like a
baby!"

"Well, don't get angry, then. You needn't look at me so—so furiously.
I've done nothing to injure you. It was like this. Father found out I'd
been smoking; at first I wouldn't own to it, but afterwards I did, and
he was awfully angry. But it was a Sunday, and mother stood up for me,
so there wasn't nearly such a row as I'd expected." Edgar paused for
a minute, then continued with heightened colour. "Of course, father
imagined, as you had been with me and there were several cigarettes
gone from the case—I'd taken them; I thought he wouldn't notice—that
you'd been smoking, too, and—and—"

"And you didn't tell him I hadn't?"

"No-o-o," Edgar was obliged to admit, "I—I didn't tell him one way or
the other."

"Why didn't you?" Roger was actually shaking with anger, the colour had
fled from his cheeks, and his eyes were alight with passion.

"Because—because father would have been angrier if he'd known you
hadn't smoked too," faltered Edgar. "Oh, Roger, I didn't tell a lie
about it, I only held my tongue."

"And let Uncle John believe that I—that I—"

Roger's voice failed him, so intense was his indignation. He had been
trying to keep his temper under control, but now it gained the mastery
over him, and, flinging himself upon Edgar, almost choking with rage,
he began to belabour him with his clenched fists. Edgar was no coward
physically, whatever he was morally, and he was on the defensive in a
moment. In a few minutes the two boys were engaged in a fierce fight,
and, being equally matched as to height and weight, there is no saying
how it might have terminated had not the sound of wheels warned the
combatants to desist. Panting and dishevelled, they stood aside to
allow the vehicle to pass; but, instead of doing so, it drew up,
and, looking to see the reason, Roger was shocked to see his aunt's
carriage, and his aunt herself in it with two lady visitors.

"Good gracious, boys!" cried Mrs. Marsh. "What is the meaning of this?
Edgar, what has happened? Why, my darling, you are covered in dust,
your clothes are torn, and —oh, surely you have not been fighting?
Roger, you naughty boy—"

"I am not more naughty than Edgar," interrupted Roger, "not nearly so
naughty if it comes to that, for I'm not a mean beast like he is." He
was far too angry to pick his words.

"How dare you use such language," began Mrs. Marsh, looking surprised
and shocked, for she had always considered her nephew a well-mannered
little boy, but he broke in again:

"We've been fighting," he said passionately, "and I began it, and if
you hadn't come up I'd have licked him. Of course you'll take his part,
Aunt Janie, you always do, but he knows he deserves a good thrashing.
I'll have nothing more to do with him, although he is my cousin, and I
won't go near the Rookery again."

"I suppose you've quarrelled," said Mrs. Marsh, glancing from her
visitors, who appeared highly entertained and evidently regarded the
scene in the light of a joke, to her son's downcast countenance. "What
have you fallen out about? How could you so far forget yourself, Edgar,
as to fight in the road?"

"You mustn't blame him for that, Aunt Janie," said Roger quickly, "for
I made him fight. I hit him first."

"But why?" questioned Mrs. Marsh, looking more and more mystified.
"I don't understand. Oh, I hope neither of you is much hurt! And, oh
dear—" with sudden alarm in her tone—"here comes your father, Edgar!
Oh, John," she proceeded as her husband came up, "do find out what has
happened to make the boys quarrel! They've been fighting."

"So I perceive," Mr. Marsh replied dryly; "you'd better drive on, my
dear, and I'll see to the youngsters. Now," he said sternly, as the
carriage passed on, "what have you two to say for yourselves? What is
the meaning of all this? I thought you were good friends."

"Friends!" echoed Roger in accents of deep disgust. "He's been no
friend to me, letting you believe I smoked with him when I never even
touched the cigarettes. I said I wouldn't tell he'd been smoking—it was
no business of mine—and I didn't, but I never thought he'd treat me so
shabbily. I've finished with him now," he continued bitterly, as he
brushed down his clothes with his hands and picked up his cap from the
dusty road, "and I'll never—"

"Stop!" commanded Mr. Marsh, "Don't make rash vows, Roger. Do you mean
to assert that you did not smoke with Edgar?"

"I did not," Roger answered firmly. "Ask him before me, and he'll tell
you the truth."

"What have you to say, Edgar?" Mr. Marsh looked anxiously at his son.

"Roger did not smoke with me, father," was the low-spoken response. "I
never said so."

"But you permitted me to think so. I am ashamed of you, Edgar. Roger,
my boy, I owe you an apology for doubting your word, you must forgive
me that I did not accept it," and Mr. Marsh laid his hand kindly on his
nephew's shoulder as he spoke. "Edgar owes you an apology, too, for his
cowardly and ungenerous treatment of you," he supplemented.

"Oh, it's all right, Uncle John, so long as you don't believe I told
you a lie," Roger said hurriedly. "I'll settle it with Edgar another
day."

"No, no, settle it now, and have done with it. I am quite satisfied you
told me the truth," and Mr. Marsh sighed as he glanced at his son, who
did not dare lift his shamed eyes from the ground, though he murmured a
few words of apology to his cousin.

After that, Mr. Marsh insisted that the two boys should shake hands,
which they did, reluctantly on Roger's part; and then he seized Edgar
by the arm, and marched him home in silence. Arrived at the Rookery,
Mr. Marsh took his son into the study, where Mrs. Marsh joined them,
anxious to learn the cause of the boys' quarrel. In a few words Mr.
Marsh explained everything to her; but when she would have tried to
excuse Edgar's conduct, he would not allow her to do so. "There is no
excuse for him," he said, "and he knows it. He has behaved in a false,
cowardly fashion towards his cousin, and I am heartily ashamed of him."

"I—I have been very unhappy about it," faltered Edgar; and there was
no doubt that he spoke the truth, for since the morning he had gone
primrose gathering with Polly and Roger his conscience had continually
pricked him. "And—and I don't believe Roger will ever forgive me; he
said he would never come to the Rookery again, and he's sure to keep
his word."

"What explanation shall I give our visitors as to the cause of the
disgraceful scene in the road?" asked Mrs. Marsh with a sigh.

"Tell them the truth—don't beat about the bush," advised her husband.
"Say Edgar was the one in fault."

"It is most unfortunate this has occurred, for I have asked Polly and
Roger to spend the afternoon here to-morrow," she said regretfully.
"Are they coming, Edgar?"

"Aunt Mary promised they should come, mother, but I don't suppose they
will now."

"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Marsh. "I will speak to their father and
tell him what has happened, and he will set things right. Roger has a
real grievance and has cause to be indignant, but I want him and Edgar
to be friends. Your brother is as straight as a line, Janie, and it
seems his son is the same. Now go to your visitors, my dear; I have a
few words to say to Edgar alone."

It astonished Edgar to see how deeply his conduct had affected Mr.
Marsh, who seemed more grieved than angry. That touched the little
boy, who was really much attached to the father who had always been
so indulgent to him, and he promised that he really would endeavour
to act as well as speak truly in the future. When, ten minutes later,
he left the study and ran upstairs to his bedroom to prepare for
luncheon—which, under the circumstances would be somewhat of an ordeal
that day—his eyes were blind with tears, and his father's parting words
rang again and again in his ears:

"Be true, my boy, whatever happens be true, and then I shall be able to
feel confidence in you. Don't ever again give me occasion to be ashamed
of my son."

CHAPTER XI

IN THE CLOCK CASE

Roger had quite made up his mind that nothing should induce him to
enter the doors of his cousin's home again; and after Mr. Marsh and
Edgar had left him, he hurried back to Princess Street, his heart full
of rage, and took his family into his confidence. Everyone agreed
with him that he had been treated shabbily, and Polly was loud in her
declamations against Edgar. It was Mrs. Trent who tried to soothe the
boy's angry mood, and pointed out to him that the present occasion was
an opportunity for showing a magnanimous spirit.

"You don't mean to say you will make me go to the Rookery to-morrow, do
you, mother?" Roger asked hotly.

"No, dear, certainly not," she answered. "You shall do as you please,
but—"

"Then I shan't go," he broke in, "so that's settled."

"I shan't go, either," declared Polly.

"You interrupted me in the midst of my sentence, Roger," Mrs. Trent
told the little boy in a tone of gentle reproof. "I was going to say
that you shall do as you please, but that by to-morrow I trust you may
see things in a different light. Edgar has treated you badly, that
I grant, but I hope you will forgive him, especially as you say he
offered you an apology, and let him see, by going to the Rookery, that
you do not bear malice in heart."

Roger made no response but when, that evening, his father said his
uncle had sent a message to him to the effect that he should expect
to see him on the following day, he realised that he would have to
overlook his cousin's cowardly conduct and consent to be his guest. "I
daresay Edgar is really sorry, and if so I suppose I ought to forgive
him," he remarked to Polly. "And, though I really don't want to go to
the Rookery, Aunt Janie always gives us a very good tea; so, all things
considered, perhaps we'd better go."

"Very well," agreed his sister, "I daresay you're right. I don't care
so much about the tea, but I should like to see the gardens and the
greenhouses."

"And the horses," supplemented Roger with a brightening face.

So the following afternoon found Polly and Roger the guests of their
cousin at the Rookery. There was unwonted shyness in Edgar's manner
as he met them in the hall and escorted them into the drawing-room to
speak to his mother, and he glanced askance at a bruise beneath Roger's
right eye, which he knew had been caused by his fist whilst Polly and
Roger both felt the awkwardness of the situation.

Mrs. Marsh greeted her little niece and nephew very cordially, and
introduced them to her friends—two fashionably dressed ladies; she
inquired for all at home, and then told them they might do whatever
they liked to amuse themselves as long as they did not get into
mischief. After that she dismissed them, and Edgar led the way upstairs
to the large room which had been his nursery, where he still kept all
his most treasured belongings, including several mechanical toys and a
big rocking-horse which had always been the envy of his cousins. Edgar
was on his best behaviour and tried to make the time pass pleasantly
for his visitors. He showed them his 'Pilgrim's Progress' and was
gratified by their admiration of its illustrations, which were indeed
very fine.

"It's the best mother could get for money," he informed them with great
satisfaction. "I expect it's a much better book than yours, isn't it?"

"Oh yes!" Polly admitted readily; "but I like our old book best."

All sense of awkwardness had died away now, and the three children were
on the best of terms with each other. By-and-by Edgar suggested a game
of hide-and-seek.

"We can hide anywhere in the house we like," he said, "and the nursery
shall be 'home.' Which of us shall hide first?"

"Oh, let me!" cried Polly eagerly.

"Very well," the boys agreed, and Roger added, "I don't suppose we
shall be long finding you."

"Don't be too sure of that," she retorted. "How long will you give me
to find a hiding-place?"

"Five minutes," Edgar replied, "and no longer, mind." Accordingly
the little girl left the boys in the schoolroom, and, after shutting
the door behind her, stole softly downstairs. She peeped into the
dining-room, but there seemed no hiding-place there, unless she got
behind a curtain, which of course would be searched immediately. "I
wish I could think of some really good place," she murmured, as she
stood in the centre of the hall hesitating which way to turn. "Perhaps
I'd better go up in the attics, there are several lumber rooms, I know,
but the boys will be certain to search them carefully."

Then suddenly a brilliant idea flashed through her mind, and her face
broke into smiles. She thought she knew one place where she could
conceal herself where the boys would never dream of looking for her,
but she must be quick and not waste time or the five minutes' grace
allowed her would be up before she had safely secreted herself.

At one side of the hall was a baize-covered swing door leading into
a passage, at the end of which Mr. Marsh's study was situated. Polly
pushed open the swing door, and a minute later she stood on the
threshold of the study. There was nobody in the room, and closing the
door she turned her attention to the tall clock, which, as has already
been said, stood against the wall near the writing-table. With fingers
trembling with eagerness, the little girl opened the door of the oak
case of the clock and peeped inside.

"There's heaps of room for me," she reflected triumphantly as she
scrutinised the swinging pendulum and the heavy iron weights of the old
time-piece. "It will be a splendid hiding-place. I am sure I can get
in, and if I do stop the clock I can easily set it going again. The
boys will never think of looking for me here. But I must hurry."

It was not so easy to get into the case of the clock as she had
anticipated it would be, for the door was nearly two feet from the
ground, but she succeeded in effecting the feat; and, once inside, she
found she could stand upright, though she was obliged to keep in one
position owing to the narrowness of the case. She laughed softly to
herself as she stood there, listening, ready to shut the door of her
hiding-place the minute she should hear sounds of anyone approaching
the room. Thus she waited several minutes; but, before very long, the
silence was broken by Edgar's voice in the passage, saying:

"I don't suppose she's in the study, but we'll have a look. I expect
she's upstairs in the attics somewhere. We must be sharp or she'll
manage to get 'home.'"

Polly smiled to herself and hastily drew the door of the clock case
close. It shut with a "click," and she was in complete darkness. She
heard the boys making a hasty search of the room, then followed the
sound of a door slammed, retreating footsteps, and after that complete
silence. The searchers had never thought of looking inside the case of
the old clock.

"What a famous joke!" thought Polly delightedly. "Now, whilst they're
in the attics I'll slip back to the schoolroom. I shall be on the
laughing side this time."

But she was not so sanguine on that point when, having allowed a few
minutes to elapse, she tried to push open the door of her hiding-place,
for to her dismay it would not move. Then it dawned upon her that she
had made herself a prisoner. Evidently the clock case could only be
opened from the outside.

At first the little girl was more vexed than startled at her situation
as she reflected that her cousin and brother would make merry over
it, and it was not until she had shouted again and again and, knocked
loudly, without bringing anyone to her assistance, that she began to
experience a distinct sense of alarm; but even then she was not very
frightened, for she felt certain her uncle would visit his study on his
return from business, he would doubtless have letters to write, so she
consoled herself with the hope that she would not be a prisoner very
long.

The minutes dragged slowly on, and Polly began to wonder if there were
spiders in the clock, or perhaps earwigs—she had a great horror of
earwigs. She had noticed that the inside of the case was very dusty,
as though it might harbour all sorts of creepy, crawly things; and
suddenly she thought she felt something on her neck, and uttered a cry
of fright. It proved to be only her imagination, however.

"Oh, this is terrible!" she exclaimed, now thoroughly alarmed. "I'm
getting so hot, I believe I shall be suffocated. Oh, will nobody come
to let me out! Roger! Roger!" And she beat against the door of the
clock case with her hand; then listened, but not a sound was to be
heard.

"I expect the boys have given up looking for me and are having tea,"
she thought miserably, with a pang of self-pity, and she shed a few
tears, for she was beginning to feel hungry, and thirsty too. She
pushed desperately against her prison, but the old oaken case was
firmly secured to the wall, and she could not move it though she
exerted all her strength; then she tried to change her position, for
she was growing cramped, but there was not room for her to do so.
Supposing, after all, no one came into the room that night and she had
to remain there till morning, how awful that would be; and the worst of
it was, she could not tell how time was passing, shut up there in the
dark. It appeared to poor Polly that she had already been imprisoned
for hours.

Meanwhile, Roger and Edgar were searching the house from attic to
basement; and it was not until tea-time that they ceased their quest.
Mrs. Marsh had driven out with her visitors, so the boys had their
tea alone in the dining-room, for, as Edgar remarked, it was no good
waiting for Polly to turn up, she could have her tea when she chose to
appear.

"I can't think where she can be," Roger said, a trifle uneasily, when,
after tea, he and his cousin strolled out into the garden. "I suppose
nothing can have happened to her?"

"What could happen to her?" questioned Edgar. "It's stupid of her to
keep away like this." Then, as they encountered a gardener, he asked
him if he had seen Polly anywhere about the grounds, only to receive a
decided reply in the negative.

About six o'clock Mrs. Marsh and her friends returned from their drive,
and were greatly astonished to hear of the little girl's disappearance;
and then Mr. Marsh arrived upon the scene and was informed that his
niece was missing.

"The little monkey is hiding to cause a sensation," he said with a
smile. "Why, Roger, you appear alarmed! That's foolish."

"Polly would not stay away at tea-time if she could help it," the
little boy responded gravely. "I know she must be hungry, because we
had dinner early. Suppose she should be shut up somewhere unable to get
out—in, a chest, perhaps, like the bride in 'The Mistletoe Bough'?"

Everyone laughed at this suggestion; it seemed so very improbable.

"Oh, she'll turn up presently, never fear," said Mr. Marsh consolingly.
"I shouldn't look for her any further. I expect she's laughing in her
sleeve at you all the while." He had been standing, talking, in the
hall, and now he pushed open the baize-covered swing door to go to his
study. "You boys can come and look at my stamps and coins if you like,"
he proceeded. "I don't think Roger has ever seen them. Good gracious!
What on earth is that? Why, someone's calling for help!" And he hurried
down the passage, followed by the boys, and entered the study.

"Oh!" wailed a muffled-sounding, frightened voice, though no one was to
be seen. "Come quickly! Oh, please do come and let me out!"

CHAPTER XII

COUSIN BECKY TELLS A SECRET

"Where can the child be?"

Mr. Marsh glanced around the room in bewilderment as he put the
question; then, a smile of intense amusement broke across his
countenance as there came in answer a series of sharp knocks from the
interior of the clock case. The boys burst out laughing and rushed
forward to release the prisoner, who stood revealed, a moment later,
with crimson cheeks, and eyes which shone through a mist of tears.

"Why didn't you come before?" she demanded, looking reproachfully at
her brother and her cousin. "You should have looked for me till you
found me, you cruel, cruel, boys!"

"Oh, I say, Polly, you needn't round on us like that," remonstrated
Edgar. "We've done nothing. Couldn't you get out?"

"No. Do you think I should have stayed here so long if I could have
helped it? I couldn't open the door from the inside, and—and oh, I
thought I should be suffocated! Help me out, one of you, please; I'm so
stiff I can scarcely move."

Mr. Marsh put the boys aside and lifted the little girl out of the
clock case. He was very kind, brushed the dust from her frock, and said
he hoped she had not been very frightened. Polly looked at him somewhat
shyly—she had never seen much of her uncle—and her lips quivered. She
felt shaky and unnerved; but she was not going to acknowledge how
alarmed she had been, so she made answer evasively—

"There was nothing to be frightened at really, only—only I thought
there might be spiders and earwigs there, and it seemed such a long,
long time to wait."

"Well, I'm glad we've found you at last," remarked Roger, "for it's
getting late."

"What time is it?" asked Polly. "I'm afraid I stopped the clock," she
said in an apologetic tone to her uncle, "but I don't think it's hurt;
there wasn't room for the pendulum to swing when I was in the case."

"Oh, I don't suppose it's hurt," he responded. "I will set it going
presently."

He took out his watch and looked at it.

"It's nearly seven," he said.

"Then it's time for us to go home," sighed Polly dolefully, "and—and I
haven't had any tea."

"Dear me, no, of course not!" exclaimed her uncle, as, overcome with
self-pity, the little girl's tears began to flow. "Edgar, call your
mother and tell her Polly's found. How long were you shut up in the
clock case, my dear?" he asked commiseratingly as his son went to do
his bidding.

"I don't know," she answered, "ages and ages!"

"About three hours," said Roger after some moments' reflection as his
uncle looked at him inquiringly.

"So long as that!" exclaimed Mr. Marsh. "Poor child, poor little girl!
Never mind, Polly, you'll feel better after you've had tea. Cheer up,
my dear."

A few minutes later Mrs. Marsh appeared upon the scene and took
possession of her niece. She was very kind and led her upstairs to her
own room, where Polly bathed the tear stains from her hot cheeks and
brushed her hair, after which she accompanied her aunt downstairs and