"Jasper," exclaimed Chrissie, forgetting her aunt's presence, "that's
very naughty of you.  Mummy, he's taken a flower out of the basket."

Mrs Fortescue winced at her sharp tone.  She was so anxious for
everything to be smooth and peaceful.

"It does smell so lovelily," said Jasper, for his treasure was a spike
of stephanotis, "but if it was naughty of me I'll put it back."

"No, no, dear--keep it by all means," said Aunt Margaret.  "There is
plenty more of it.  And--oh Roland, my dear boy," for just at that
moment the elder brother luckily made his appearance, "how glad I am to
see you!  Now we are _all_ together," she added with a glance round the
well-filled table, "and when one can say that, one should not feel there
is much to complain of--should we, dear Reginald?" and she turned to Mr
Fortescue, beside whom she was sitting.

"No indeed," he replied heartily.  "You and gloomy feelings certainly
couldn't live together, Aunt Margaret--could they, eh, Jasper, my boy?
what do you think about it?" for Jasper was listening with all his ears
and a pleased smile on his face, while he fondled his precious
stephanotis.

"How they do spoil that child," Leila whispered to Christabel.

"Yes," was the reply in the same tone; "it looks as if it would be worse
than ever now _she's_ come."  Then, as they had all finished tea, Mrs
Fortescue took the traveller upstairs to her room.

"Mumsey, darlin'," said Jasper, as she passed him, "mayn't we help you
to rerange the flowers?"

"Not to-night, dear.  It's too late, and it would upset the
drawing-room.  But I'll tell you what--listen, Leila and Chrissie--you
may _all_ do them to-morrow morning, as early as you like.  I will send
them down to the cellar for the night, and I will look out the biggest
glasses and vases we have.  I am so glad I kept several, though I didn't
expect to have so much to fill them with."

"As early as you like," Chrissie repeated to herself.  "That'll just
suit me.  I love doing flowers if I'm not interfered with.  And there's
not much fear of Lell turning out of bed early if I don't hurry her up,"
for, in spite of all orders to the contrary, Leila was still naughty
enough often to read in bed at night with a candle lighted on a little
table by her side, which, naturally, did not make her very wakeful in
the morning.  And Chrissie, though she had threatened more than once to
tell their mother of this dangerous disobedience, took care that evening
to offer no objection to it, for the selfish and unsisterly reason that
I have spoken of.

Aunt Margaret was tired, notwithstanding her good spirits, and not sorry
to go to bed early.  As she was on her way to her room, Mrs Fortescue
accompanying her, she glanced up the higher staircase.

"Let us say good-night again to the children," she said.  "I hear Leila
and Chrissie talking, so they cannot be in bed yet, and I have not yet
seen their room," and as in that little house there was never far to go,
Mrs Fortescue readily consented.

"Leila, Chrissie," she said, "Aunt Margaret has come to say good-night
to you in your own domain," and they came forward to be kissed again.
On the whole, things were not so desperately untidy as was often the
case, and their visitor glanced round approvingly.

"Yes, it is really a nice room," she said.  "Poor dears, they must miss
Nurse.  Still you are big girls now and will be pleased to be
independent," and she did not notice that there was only a very vaguely
murmured reply.  "Let me have one peep at Jasper," she went on.  "It is
so long since I have seen the dear little fellow asleep, and I remember
how sweet he used to look."

Mrs Fortescue lighted a candle in Roland's room, out of which Jasper's
opened--Roland was still downstairs with his father,--and carefully
shading it from the little sleeper's eyes, led the way in.  The child
was fast, very fast asleep--he looked prettier than when awake, for
slumber brought a rosy flush to his face, as a rule paler than one would
have wished to see it.

And to-night he looked particularly well and happy, for he was smiling,
and murmured some words as his mother bent over him, which at first
puzzled her--"the growin' ones," he said, "it must be somefin' growin'."

"What can he be dreaming about?" she whispered to her aunt, and then her
eye caught sight of the probable cause of Jasper's pleasant fancies.  It
was the sprig of stephanotis, carefully tied to a bar at the head of his
little cot, so that the sweet perfume was doubtless wafted to him as he
lay.

"I know," exclaimed Aunt Margaret.  "Dear little fellow--it is something
about the plants that I said were coming by goods train to-morrow.  How
glad I am that Morris thought of them!"

She was right, though it was not till long afterwards that Jasper told
his dream, which in time to come, as his ideas grew and developed,
seemed to him almost, simple as it was, to have been a kind of allegory.
And for fear I should forget about it as our story goes on, I may as
well tell it to you now.

He dreamt that he was walking up a rather steep hill; it was grassy and
pleasant to step on, but still he felt a little tired and wondered how
much farther he would have to go.  Where he was going, or why, he could
not clearly understand; he only knew that go on he must, and all the
time, in his hand, he carried his sweetly scented flower.  Then,
suddenly, he became aware that, on his journey, whatever was the reason
and object of it, he was not alone--numbers and numbers of other
children were pressing on in the same direction.  They did not speak to
him or to each other, every one seemed full of the same eagerness to get
to the top of the hill; and soon the explanation of this grew plain to
him, for a breath, more than a voice, passed through the crowd of little
travellers, murmuring--

"The gates, the gates of the beautiful garden."  And lifting his eyes he
saw, now but a short way off, great gates of silvery trellis-work,
through which he could already catch glimpses of stretches of exquisite
lawns, and glorious trees, and smooth winding paths, bordered by plants
and flowers of indescribable loveliness.  He seemed to himself to give a
bound of delight, for something told him that he and all his companions
were coming there by invitation, and in another moment or two the crowd
of children had reached the top of the hill and were standing in front
of the gates.  And then Jasper noticed another thing--each child was
carrying a flower, or a plant--many, like himself, a cut-off branch or
blossom only; some, and the faces of these had a different expression
from that of the others, flowerpots filled with earth in which the plant
was happily alive and growing.  They were not all of equal size or
beauty; several were very tiny, nothing but a few green leaves perhaps;
some, what one would carelessly call "quite common" little things--a
daisy root or a small nest of violets, of which only one timid head was
as yet to be seen.  _But_ all these had roots, and were growing!  Then
glancing at the other children, who like himself carried only a single
blossom, he saw an anxious look on their faces, and to his distress he
perceived that these flowers were drooping and beginning to fade and
wither, and he was just turning to examine his own, when he heard an
eager cry--and looking up, he saw a figure coming down the garden and
opening the gate at one side, not widely, but enough to let one child
through at a time.

Jasper pressed forward--the new-comer was all dressed in white--the face
was more beautiful than any face not seen in dreams.

"It's an angel," thought Jasper, and some words he had heard or read of
came into his mind.

"`The garden of Paradise,' that must be it," he thought dreamily.

And then he looked again and more anxiously, for he saw that by no means
every child was allowed to enter--and of those who with saddened or
disappointed faces turned back, every one was the bearer of a single
blossom only, a poor, already-fading flower!

The angel's face was grave as he slowly shook his head, when Jasper
himself drew near.

"I cannot, my child, I cannot," he said; "you must bring a different
offering;" and Jasper, on the point of tears, replied--

"I didn't know--I didn't know.  What shall I do?"

And the angel smiled and said--

"No, my darling, you did not know.  But you can come again and bring a
living plant.  All have to learn.  Many of those you now see entering
did not know the first time they came.  Take courage--your growing plant
is ready for you."

And then it was, I think, that he smiled in his sleep and whispered, "It
must be a growin' one."

Yet for a moment or two he stood by the silver gate and watched, for he
felt the angel wanted him to do so.  And some things surprised him.  The
most beautiful plants were not always carried by the prettiest or most
attractive children.  Some of their bearers were sadly poor-looking--
one, above all, a little cripple in shabby clothes, who could scarcely
hobble in--but oh, what a glorious wealth of snow-white lilies he
carried, and how his face shone with delight at the gate-keeper's
approving smile.  And once inside--for Jasper gazed longingly after
him--how was it?--such things come to us in dreams, and are they not the
shadow of the true?--the shining seemed to clothe the stunted figure as
with a garment, till he stood there erect and beautiful--a very angel
himself.  And murmuring, "P'raps he'll be the one at the gate the next
time I come," Jasper awoke.

But it was not yet even midnight, so, as the scent of his flower--poor
little flower, faithful to the last, though it had to wither--reached
his but half-awakened senses, the boy smiled again, and this time went
off into dreamless slumber.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

A CATASTROPHE.

Chrissie, as I think you will remember, was not given to sleeping late.
Indeed, laziness of any kind was not a weak point of hers.

And on the morning after Aunt Margaret's arrival, she woke, as she had
gone to sleep determined to do, even earlier than usual.  It was only
just beginning to be faintly light.  She lay still for some little time,
for it was as yet too dark to see what o'clock it was, and if she had
struck a light it might have roused Leila--the last thing she wished to
do.

But before long, some slight sounds overhead gave notice that the two
servants, who, being young country-bred girls, had not yet lost their
good habit of early rising, were getting up.  Then, even in that quiet
side-street, came sounds of the great world of London being awake
again--a church clock struck six, a milk cart or two rattled by, and
farther off in the distance was faintly heard the rumbling of heavier
carts and waggons.

"I suppose it's no good my getting up till the servants are down, and
till it's lighter," thought the little girl.  "I'll try to keep still
till it strikes the half-hour, or at least till I can see the figures on
the bee-clock.  But it's awfully tiresome.  I _can't_ understand Lelly
liking to stay in bed."

And never did a half-hour pass more slowly for an impatient child than
did this one.  Still, Chrissie kept to her resolution; she could be both
sensible and self-controlled when it suited her.

But by seven o'clock she was fully dressed, though there had been no
question of a bath, seeing that Harriet only brought the hot water at
half-past, and I _fear_ the amount of washing that she had stealthily
performed with cold water and a basin only, had better not be inquired
into.  All the same, she felt decidedly proud of her good management
when she found herself quietly slipping downstairs, leaving Leila still
peacefully slumbering.

It was not a very cold morning and it had quite left off raining.
Still, it felt very chilly as she entered the drawing-room, where
Harriet had just opened the windows.

"Miss Chrissie!" she exclaimed with a start.

"Is there anything the matter?"

"Of course not.  I've got up early to do the flowers.  Mother said I
might.  So go and fetch them at once, and bring the glasses to put them
in, and a big can of water."

Harriet hesitated.

"Couldn't you wait, Miss, just till I've brushed and swept up and done
the fire?  I've to get the room right quickly, you see, to be ready for
the old lady."

"`Wait'!" repeated Christabel, "of course I can't.  And you're very
rude, Harriet, to speak of the `old lady' like that.  Can't you say
`Miss Fortescue'?"

"I'm sure I beg pardon," Harriet replied, and feeling rather ashamed of
her unintended disrespect, she dared not object further, and hurried off
as Chrissie had ordered.

But with the young lady spreading out flowers and glasses and water-cans
all over the floor, it was clearly impossible to go on sweeping.
Furthermore, Chrissie made her shut the window, so all the poor girl
could attend to, and that not without difficulty, was the fireplace.

Little cared Chrissie.  She went on sorting and selecting, cleverly
enough, it must be owned, and some of the glasses were looking pretty
and graceful, when a sound made her glance at the door.  There stood
Jasper, Harriet by this time having fled in despair.

"What do you want?" said Chrissie sharply.  She was already getting a
little tired of her task, for she had been at it for three-quarters of
an hour.

"Oh Chrissie, Lelly is _so_ cross," he said.  "She heard me goin' down
and she called me.  She's nearly dressed and she's comin' immediately.
And I'm afraid she's very vexed.  And the room is in such a mess," and,
child though he was, he gazed round in consternation.

It was quite true--the mess was appalling.  For it was not in Chrissie's
nature to do anything with method, and Leila's greater neatness would
have been a help in the morning's work.  But even worse was to follow;
for almost before Chrissie had taken in what Jasper was saying, Leila,
for once, in her indignation, as hasty as her sister, dashed into the
room, upsetting as she did so, one of the big cans of water brought by
Harriet, and, sadder still, one of the already arranged vases, breaking
it into pieces--the water streaming out to mingle with the pool already
forming, the poor flowers pitched about in all directions.

Christabel flew at her, trying to push her out of the room.

"You horrid girl," she said, "you clumsy creature."

"It's you that's horrid," returned Leila.  "Worse than horrid.  How
could you be so mean and sneaky?  Why didn't you wake me?  Mother meant
us to do them together.  It's all your fault.  I shall tell Mother--it
isn't mine a bit.  Let go of me," but Chrissie only pushed her the more
fiercely.

And this was the sight, these were the sounds, that met poor Mrs
Fortescue as, unheard by the furious children, she stood in the
doorway,--room in chaos, the pretty carpet, chosen newly on purpose to
brighten the look of things, soaking--dark with water--the bits of glass
and poor flowers all strewed about, and, worst of all, two little girls,
crimson with anger, struggling together and hurling out ugly words of
reproach and rage.

They started however--Chrissie releasing Leila, who stood silent and
motionless--when they heard their mother's voice.

"Aunt Margaret's first morning.  And I trusted you both to help me," she
said, as she turned away.

She was so bitterly disappointed that I really think there were tears in
her eyes as she hurried down the passage in search of Harriet and cloths
to wipe up the pools and streams of water.  But before she got to the
top of the staircase leading down to the basement, she almost ran across
a small figure, whose face was hardly to be seen amid the pile of things
he was carrying.

"I've been to get cloths and sponges to dry it all up, Mummy," he said
breathlessly, "and a pail to squeeze it into, and Harriet's comin'," and
sure enough the housemaid's head just then emerged at the top of the
kitchen staircase.

"Master Jasper, Master Jasper," she gasped, "you can't carry all that;"
and certainly he did look very comical, with his intensely grave face
peeping out above his load.

"My poor Brownie," said his mother, "_my_ good fairy--what would I do
without you?" and somehow she could not help a little laugh.

Jasper gazed at her in surprise, but then feeling that he was the master
of the situation, he hurried off again.  "Come quick, Mumsey," he said,
"p'raps we can stop any more of the carpet getting wet, if we're quick,"
and, followed by Harriet, they hurried into the drawing-room.

Leila and Christabel, by this time sobered and ashamed, though feeling,
I fear, very far from friendly to each other, were on their knees in
different parts of the floor--Leila picking up the fragments of broken
glass; Chrissie rescuing the poor scattered flowers.  Neither spoke, and
their mother said coldly--

"Go upstairs.  You are only in the way here.  Come down at once when you
hear the breakfast gong."

Then Chrissie burst out--

"It's not fair.  It was all Leila.  She knocked over the things, and I'd
got up early on purpose."

"Chrissie," said her mother, and the one word silenced her again--"I
cannot trust you together, I see," Mrs Fortescue went on.  "Go up to
your room, Leila, and you, Chrissie, stay in the dining-room."

Then with Harriet's help--Jasper carefully collecting the flowers--some
sort of order was by degrees brought about; the dangerous pieces of
glass swept up, and the carpet dried as far as was possible.  But it was
necessary to leave the window open, and it was plain that some hours
must pass before the room could be occupied.

"Make as large a fire as you can, to help to dry the floor, Harriet,"
said Mrs Fortescue, and then she took Jasper's hand and left the room.
"Oh dear, oh dear!" she could not help murmuring, "it does seem too
bad--Aunt Margaret's first morning," and a little squeeze of her fingers
told her of Jasper's sympathy.

"I'm sure Lelly and Chrissie is really _werry_ sorry," he said, "and
Auntie is _so_ kind, Mumsey."

Kind indeed she was.  For a few minutes later, when she came downstairs
and it had to be explained to her that a woeful catastrophe had
occurred, she declared that it would be a very good thing for her not to
be tempted to loiter in the drawing-room that morning, "for I really
must unpack and arrange my things upstairs.  I suppose lessons have not
begun regularly yet," she went on, "so may Leila and Chrissie help me a
little?" and she glanced at them as she spoke.  Leila looked down,
Chrissie grew scarlet.

"Ah," thought Aunt Margaret, "I fear what has happened was not all an
accident.  Poor children--it would have been kinder to them in the end
if they had been less indulged.  We have all been to blame in the
matter.  Still, it is never too late to mend, and I must do my part."

But from now, her eyes, loving though they were, watched things more
closely and anxiously.

Neither of the little girls ventured to reply, but Mrs Fortescue,
glancing at them, could not keep back a start.

"Chrissie," she said, "have you looked at yourself this morning?  Do you
know that your face is simply--well, to speak plainly, _dirty_, and your
hair `Like a crow's nest,' as my old nurse used to say?  I hope Daddy
won't notice it."

For their aunt's sake, Mrs Fortescue tried to speak lightly, though she
was really feeling sadly discouraged.  Chrissie tried to toss her head
in the way she usually did when found fault with, but I scarcely think
the effort was a success, and she was very glad that as her father was
late that morning, having had letters to write in his study, she had
finished her breakfast before he came in.

"Yes," said her mother, in answer to her unspoken question, "yes, you
can go upstairs at once and make yourself fit to be seen."

"Leila," said Mrs Fortescue in a moment or two, "I do think you might
take a little charge of Chrissie.  After all she is younger and more
thoughtless by nature than you are.  Did you not see how untidy she
was?"

"How could I?" said Leila gloomily.  "She had left the room before I
awoke."

Just then Mr Fortescue's step was heard in the passage, and as Leila's
black looks were almost as much to be dreaded as Chrissie's dirty face,
their mother added quickly, "Well, at any rate, you can help her now.
So run after her;" and Leila, though with evident unwillingness, did as
she was told.

"I am so sorry, so terribly sorry," Mrs Fortescue had time to say to
her aunt in a low voice, "that you should have such an uncomfortable
first morning with us;" but Aunt Margaret only smiled quietly.

"My dear," she said, "I am here, I hope, to be of some little help to
you, not only to be comfortable, though really there is nothing that
matters as far as I am concerned.  And don't lose heart.  The little
girls will profit by all this in the end."

An hour or so later, when Aunt Margaret, up in her own room, was still
busy unpacking, there came a tap at the door, and in answer to her "come
in," a small voice replied--

"It's me, Auntie.  Mumsey said p'raps I could carry things downstairs,
or rerange them for you."

"Thank you, my dear little boy.  Yes--here in this corner are some books
and my knitting and some of my pet treasures that I should like to have
in the drawing-room.  Mumsey showed me the nice table she has kept for
me."

"Yes," said Jasper, "the table with the splendid big drawer.  Shall I
take them down now?"

"No, wait a minute or two till I have emptied this last trunk.  You may
unwrap all those things and then we can throw away the paper."

"Auntie," said Jasper, while he worked away busily, "will the glowin'
plants come soon?  I do so want them, 'cos you see they won't wither,"
and he sighed.  "Roots is funny things--when I was very little I thought
flowers would grow wifout roots, just the same."

"And now you know better," said his aunt with a smile.  "Boots are very
wonderful things--not only plant roots.  We need them in our characters
too."  Jasper looked puzzled.  His dream was in his mind, though he was
too shy to tell it.

"You see," Miss Fortescue went on, "it is like this.  We should do
things because we feel we _ought_, not just because we're inclined.
Being kind to each other, for instance, when we are feeling
good-humoured and pleasant is all very well, but we need more than that.
We need to be kind even when we are feeling cross or tired, or even
when others are unkind to us, because it is _right_.  Passing feelings
are like plucked flowers--what are called good principles are like
plants with roots."

Jasper's face lighted up.

"And then being good _grows_," he said.

"Yes, indeed," said Aunt Margaret, almost startled by his quickness.
"Still it needs care.  Watching, and above all, praying to God to help
us--that is like the refreshing, nourishing water that plants need if
they are to grow and prosper."

Jasper gave a deep sigh of satisfaction.

"Now," said his aunt, "I think you might carry down some of these
things.  Suppose you first take the books.  Not too many at a time--can
you manage all those?"

"Oh yes.  I could take more quite well," was the reply, for Jasper was a
most zealous helper.

"I don't think I want to send down any more, thank you, dear.  I will
keep most of my books up here, on those nice little shelves."

So off trotted the small messenger with his load.  Perhaps he was _too_
careful, glancing so often at the pile of books that he did not glance
enough at his own feet, for just as he was half-way down the last stair,
there came an accident.  Somehow or other he tripped and rolled down six
or seven steps, the books on the top of him.  Poor Jasper!  He did not
cry out, though for a moment or two he could scarcely keep back his
tears--he felt bruised and giddy and rather mortified.  But he was a
very brave as well as patient little fellow, and he was struggling to
his feet again when the dining-room door opened and Chrissie looked out.

"What was that noise?" she said.  "Oh, it's you, Japs--have you fallen
downstairs?"

"Yes, I has," he replied, "but please don't tell Aunt Marg'ret or she
won't let me help her any more.  I hasn't hurt myself much."

"Poor Jasper," said Chrissie, "never mind.  It's a good thing you were
only carrying books, not china or glass.  Leila's done enough in that
way for to-day.  But I say, how pretty some of these books are," and she
held up a small, beautifully bound prayer-book, and another "birthday
book," exquisitely illuminated.

"Yes," said Jasper, "I fink they're Auntie's bestest books.  She's goin'
to keep them in the droind-room, on her table."

"I'll help you to carry them in," said Chrissie, and so she did--the
carpet by this time was beginning to dry, though only beginning!--"I
wish somebody would give me a prayer-book like this," she went on.  "I'd
love to take it to church."

And then, their pile being safely deposited, Jasper turned to go
upstairs again, though limping a little.

"I hope I won't tumble any more," he said, "for there's lots of fings
still to bring down."

"Suppose I offer to help too?" said Chrissie.  "My face is quite clean
now and my hair's tidy.  I think it was too bad of Mummy to say anything
about them before Aunt Margaret, when it was all, or nearly all, Lell's
fault this morning."

"Auntie's werry kind," said Jasper.  "I daresay she'd like you to help,"
and if he felt a tiny scrap of disappointment at not having all the
honour to himself, his good little heart would not allow him to show it.
"What's Lelly doing?" he went on.

"Crouched up by the dining-room fire over a story-book, of course," said
Chrissie.  "_She_ won't mind," and her face was so bright and her tone
so pleasant when she went into her aunt's room with Jasper, that Miss
Fortescue began to think that she had really been taking the little
girls' misdemeanours too seriously!

"They are only children after all," she said to herself, and "Yes,
dear," she replied to Christabel, "I shall be very glad of your help.
Can you hang up some of these cloaks and things in the cupboard?  I am
so glad there is a cupboard!  And Jasper, my boy, will you put my boots
and shoes and slippers neatly in a row on that lowest shelf?  I won't
send anything more downstairs till I see what had better stay up here,
and I have not come across my wool for knitting yet."

Her cheerfulness touched a gentle chord in Chrissie.

"Aunt Margaret," she said, "it must be _awfully_ strange for you here in
this poky house, compared to Fareham.  I wonder you don't mind more."

"Dear child, you must not think me better than I am," Miss Fortescue
replied.  "I have `minded'," and her voice shook a little, "terribly--
wrongly, I fear.  But it might have been so much worse.  Think what some
have to bear--of loneliness and lovelessness when they are old like me!
If I can feel that I am of use to you all, and able to brighten things a
little for your father and mother, it will be almost as great a joy as
it used to be to me to have you all at Fareham."

Christabel did not reply.  But her aunt's words impressed her.  Ideas--
feelings rather, perhaps--were awaking in her, which were new to her;
though she had often heard and read of "unselfishness," and the
happiness of living for others, of bearing, or at least sharing their
burdens, she had never really "taken in," realised these truths.  To see
them acted upon, made the very sunshine of life, struck her as very
wonderful.  For perhaps the first time, she said to herself, "I wish I
could really care for other people and try to make them happy and not
mind about myself," and though the thought passed off again, and she was
as ready as ever to grumble and to squabble with Leila and to fight for
her own rights and fancies, still, it was something that it _had_ been
there, a beginning, a tiny seedling, which might yet take root and
blossom into beauty.

So the day which had seemed likely, like poor long-ago Rosamund's, to be
"one of misfortunes," cleared and improved as it went on.  Chrissie had
one happy quality--she really, if once interested in a thing, did throw
her whole heart and cleverness into it; and careless and unmethodical
though she was, the sight of her aunt's fairy-like neatness and order
struck her pleasantly.

"If it wasn't such a trouble," she said, "I would like to be beautifully
neat like you, Aunt Margaret.  Leila _thinks_ she is, but I don't call
it neat just to be slow and dreamy and never sure where you are or where
your things are.  I think its just as bad as my dashing about and
turning things topsy-turvy.  I don't say she tears and spoils her frocks
as much as I do, but she _forgets_ quite as badly, and--"

A sigh from Jasper's corner interrupted her.

"What's the matter?" she said.

"Oh, I was only thinkin' I do hope I won't forget to water the growin'
plants when they come," replied the little boy.

Chrissie laughed.

"He's got those plants on the brain, Aunt Margaret," she said.  "You'd
better forget about them for just now, Japs," she went on, turning to
him, "for very likely they won't come for ever so long.  Things take
such a time by luggage trains."

Jasper's face fell--somehow his dream and the talk with his aunt had got
mixed up with the thought of the real plants and made him long for them
with the curious intensity of longing that one scarcely sympathises with
enough in children.  But his aunt understood.

"Cheer up, Jasper," she said.  "I shouldn't wonder if they come to-day--
this very afternoon perhaps."

CHAPTER NINE.

PRAYER-BOOKS, LOST AND FOUND.

And so they did!  Aunt Margaret would not have raised Jasper's hopes
without good reason, and she knew that there are ways and means of
hurrying up hampers and cases even by goods trains, when there is cause
for doing so.  Morris, the Fareham gardener, had seen to it all, and the
well-chosen plants and flowers arrived in good order, looking none the
worse for their journey.

They gave all the children a busy and--for that very reason perhaps--a
happy afternoon, Jasper especially, as his mother chose out half-a-dozen
pots "for his very own" to keep on a tiny table in front of his window,
and the others were arranged in groups on flower-stands in the three
rooms downstairs, as neither Leila nor Chrissie cared to have any in
their own quarters.

"I'd only forget to water them," said Chrissie coolly, "and so would
Lell, I'm sure, and then there'd be fusses," and though Leila half
thought of firing up at this, her usual dislike to trouble gained the
day, and she said nothing.

"The drawing-room looks quite a different place with flowers and
greenery about," said Mrs Fortescue, "and Aunt Margaret's pretty
work-baskets and silver scissors and knick-knacks."

"And books," added Chrissie.  "Aren't they lovely--the bindings, I
mean?" and she fondled the prayer-book which had so caught her fancy.

"I am afraid the prayer-book is more ornamental than useful to me now,"
said Miss Fortescue.  "The print is too small for my old eyes.  So I
have to use a much larger one.  Yes--my corner looks quite homelike,
thanks to your table and that most comfortable arm-chair, Edith."

"I think we may sit in here this evening," said Mrs Fortescue, eyeing
the still darkened carpet.  "We will leave the window open and keep up a
big fire till dark.  But we had better not stay any longer just now.  I
do hope to-morrow will be a brighter day."

"But it is not raining, though it is dull," said her aunt, "and the
children have not been out.  I think we might have a little walk before
tea.  I should like to know something of the neighbourhood."

"I can show you the post-office--it's nearer than the pillar-box," said
Jasper.  "Mumsey lets me go to buy stamps--and the omlibus
startin'-place, and the church, and--"

"Don't be silly, Jasper," said Leila, who was feeling cross at having to
go out.  "That's not what Aunt Margaret wants to see--not that there's
anything at all to see," she added gloomily.  "It's perfectly hideous,
it's not like London at all."

"I thought you were within a mile of Kensington Gardens," said Miss
Fortescue quietly.  "I have very pleasant associations with Kensington
Gardens and the old Palace."

"We've never been there since we came," said Leila.  "Mother's been too
busy to take us, and besides--they're always stuffed with nursery-maids
and perambulators."

"Well--let us explore a little by degrees; as the spring comes on we
must find some pleasant walks.  But we must be quick just now, or it
will be getting too late for even a short one."

And for a wonder the two sisters did manage to be ready when their aunt
came downstairs, followed by Jasper, who insisted on carrying her
"numbrella."  Leila was feeling a little ashamed of her peevishness, and
Chrissie was still under the good impression of the morning.  So both
were, for the time being, at their best, and the walk passed off
pleasantly.

But Aunt Margaret was very observant, and even now, in these first few
day's, when the novelty of her presence and the influence of her
never-failing cheerful kindliness did much to smooth things, her heart
was sometimes sad and anxious.

"They have been terribly spoilt," she said to herself, "and while life
was made so very easy for them, this did not show as it does now.  Poor
dears--I hope we may be able to check this selfishness and want of
consideration for others--it may be more owing to want of thought than
to any deeper cause."

As time went on, however, her anxiety and disappointment increased.
Leila fell back into her indolent habits, and Christabel grew more
openly defiant and self-willed.  And at last their mother felt that she
could no longer go on trying to make the best of things in hopes of
sparing her aunt distress, and herself perhaps, unselfish as she was,
some sharp mortification.

"I don't know what to do with either of the little girls," she said one
day, when things and tempers had been unusually trying.  "I cannot bear
to say much about it to Reginald--he has enough to worry him in so many
ways.  I had hoped that when we settled down into this new life they
would really try to be a comfort to us.  But they think of nothing but
their own likes and dislikes--they don't seem to have the least idea of
obedience.  Why, Chrissie was almost rude to _you_, dear aunt, at their
French lesson to-day--and Leila had evidently not pretended to learn
those verses!  And you are _so_ good to them."

"Do not distress yourself for _me_," said Miss Fortescue.  "We have all
been to blame in the past, and we must face it and do our best.  I am
sure it will all come right in the end.  Your children and Reginald's,
dear Edith, _cannot_ be really selfish."

Mrs Fortescue tried to smile.

"Perhaps _I_ have been selfish in not being stricter with them," she
said.  "My one idea was to make them happy, and with the boys it seems
to have done no harm."

"Roland has had the discipline of school for several years," said Aunt
Margaret; "and as for little Jasper--well, really, he seems one of those
sweet natures that _can't_ be spoilt."

"And I fancy he has had rather a Cinderella-like life in the nursery,
boy though he is," said his mother.  "How strange it seems that
selfishness in some should be good training for those who suffer from
it."

"But, on the other hand, there is the good example," replied Miss
Fortescue.  "I have noticed several times that the little fellow's
gentleness and sweetness _have_ made his sisters ashamed of themselves--
Chrissie especially.  And Jasper is not very strong, you know, whereas
the girls are overflowing with health, which may be a bar to sympathy
sometimes--all good gifts _may_ be abused.  But I do hope that the great
change in their lives may prove a blessing in disguise to our little
girls."

"I had hoped so too," said their mother.  "Indeed, Miss Earle said
something of the kind before she left.  She had begun to feel very
discouraged."

"And other discipline will be sent if they do not profit by this," said
Miss Fortescue almost solemnly.  "But let us hope that they will."

Life, however, as the days went on, was by no means as peaceful and
happy in the small house in Spenser Terrace as it might have been, and
should have been.  And but for Aunt Margaret's unfailing sympathy and
hopefulness I scarcely think Mrs Fortescue could have kept up at all.
For she knew that she _must_ be cheerful when her husband was at home.
Life was far from easy for him at present; he was working hard in ways
that were new to him, and more trying than if he had been a younger man,
and a bright welcome and peaceful evenings were certainly due to him.
More than once she tried to make her little daughters understand this,
and for a few hours, a day or two at most, it seemed to impress them.
But, alas! all too soon the old habits overmastered them again: Leila
was as lazy and self-absorbed as ever; Chrissie disobedient and defiant.

Mrs Fortescue, with some difficulty, had found a daily governess,
living near them, who was glad to come for the morning hours and take
the children for a walk when lessons were over.  She was a simple,
good-natured girl, well taught and well able to teach up to a certain
point, but she was a very different sort of governess from Miss Earle,
and very soon both Leila and Christabel began to take advantage of her
simplicity and half-timid manners.

One day, to her great distress, Mrs Fortescue, meeting the poor thing
on her way out, saw unmistakable signs of recent tears in her face and
eyes, and when a kind inquiry was made as to their cause, they burst out
again more freely.

"I'm afraid I must give it up," she sobbed, "and I was so glad to come
near home and all.  And it's not easy for me to find pupils, as of
course I am not accomplished."

"But your English teaching is excellent," said Mrs Fortescue; "it is
all I require for the children at present.  Please don't be
discouraged."

Still she sobbed on.

"It's--it's not that," she said, "except that if I were cleverer they--
they might respect me.  Jasper is as good as gold, but--but the little
girls, the young ladies--they do not obey me in the least, and--and--
they say things--"

Mrs Fortescue turned and walked down the street with her.  It was
quiet, and really less likely to be disturbed by passers-by than the
small house by incursions of children!

"What sort of things?  Tell me more, I beg you, Miss Greenall."

"That--that I'm not a lady--and I have never pretended to be one in the
full sense of the word.  Father was only a shop-keeper, and mother is a
farmer's daughter.  But still--I don't think Christabel need speak as
she does.  And leila dawdles on purpose to vex me sometimes, I do think,
and when I found fault to-day--she kept us waiting fully ten minutes--
she said of course _I_ couldn't understand what it was to have no
maid--`of course _you_,' she said, `have been used to huddling on your
clothes anyhow, ever since you were quite a baby almost'--and," Miss
Greenall continued, "I _know_ I am not untidy, though I dress plainly.
Mother brought us up to be very neat."

Mrs Fortescue sighed deeply.

"My dear Miss Greenall," she said, "your mother brought you up much
better than I seem to have brought up _my_ daughters.  I am unspeakably
ashamed of them, and I beg you to accept my apology.  And _they_ shall
apologise to you to-morrow morning."

But at this poor Miss Greenall looked up with frightened eyes.  She was
a pretty fair girl, small and delicate-looking.

"Oh, please, please," she entreated, "do not tell them I have
complained.  I could not go on if they knew it.  I will try again and be
a little firmer with them, if only, only you will say nothing."

And, though against her own convictions, Mrs Fortescue had to agree to
what Miss Greenall asked.

And for a few days things were better.  The little girls had been
startled by the sight of the tears which the poor governess had not been
able to repress--startled and shamed.  Nor had Jasper's face of shocked
surprise lessened the impression.

He was no tell-tale, but still--

"Japs," said Chrissie, the first time they were alone together, "I'm
sorry we made that silly Miss Green--what's-her-name--cry, and so's
Lell.  We were half joking, you know."

The child looked at her with his solemn blue eyes, and Christabel felt
herself blushing.  She was naturally truthful.

"At least," she went on, "we didn't mean her to take it like that.
_She_ might have seemed to think it a joke.  But we don't want Mummy to
hear about it.  Things sound worse when they're tell-taled."

"I'se _not_ a tell-tale," said Jasper stoutly.

"Well, well--I didn't say you were.  And I promise that we won't say
those things again, as she minds them so, silly that she is."

"Will you tell her you're solly?"  Jasper inquired.

"I don't know--we'll see about it," Chrissie replied, "but any way we
won't make her cry again."

So Jasper contented himself with cherishing most carefully the very best
of his hyacinths, just beginning to show a little colour, as a gift to
Miss Greenall, to be presented as soon as it would be fit for her
acceptance.

"And if Lelly and Chrissie would _werry_ much like to join," he said to
himself in his generous little heart, "we might give it 'atween us all.
I'm sure it's goin' to be a splendid one."

But, alas! before the hyacinth's delicate pink flowers had reached
perfection, and Jasper's kind plan could be carried out, sad things had
come to pass, which I must hasten to tell you about.

The impression made upon Leila and Chrissie by Miss Greenall's distress
was not a lasting one, except in so far as they were more careful in
their way of speaking to her; for they knew that Jasper's eyes were upon
them, and that any rudeness to their teacher would not escape him.  But
beyond this, there was no real improvement.  They were careless,
unpunctual, and, so far as they dared, disobedient.  Still Miss Greenall
went on doing her best, and now and then her patience and gentleness had
some little good, effect.  She was able to tell Mrs Fortescue that
things were rather better.  "I think I can go on," she said, "if only
Leila was more attentive and Chrissie less heedless."

It really went to her heart--brought up as she had been in neat and
careful ways--to see the children's destructiveness--copy-books blotted
and torn; lesson-books dog-eared and spotted; worse still, frocks and
aprons covered with ink, or ruthlessly smeared with fingers much in need
of soap and water!  And in these kinds of carelessness Christabel was
the worst offender, in spite of her occasional good resolutions, always
encouraged by Aunt Margaret, to try to be as neat as "you were, when you
were a little girl," in reply to which, her aunt would smile and assure
her that good habits of no kind come all of themselves to anybody, man
or woman, boy or girl.

It chanced one Sunday morning, when the sisters were, as usual, late in
getting ready for church, and their father's voice had sounded more than
once up the staircase hastening them, that Chrissie could not find her
prayer-book.  Go without it she scarcely dared, for this was the sort of
carelessness that Mr Fortescue himself might notice, and when "Daddy"
_did_ "notice," even Chrissie "minded!"  Now Leila was the happy
possessor of two prayer-books, one of which was practically new, and
which she kept wrapped up in tissue-paper in a drawer.

"Oh Lell," said Chrissie in despair, as Leila was leaving the room, "do
lend me your best one, or take it yourself and let me have the one like
mine."

"No, indeed, I won't," said Leila, hurrying off, as Mr Fortescue's
voice came again.

"You must run after us.  We can wait no longer, children," he called.
Leila was already half-way downstairs.

Chrissie gave a frantic rush round the room again, scrambling under the
beds, pushing aside chairs and tables in search of her book, but all in
vain.  And even if she had dared to take her sister's "best one," she
was not sure where to look for it.  It would have needed time to find.

"I must go," she thought, "whatever happens."  So she dashed off--
narrowly escaping falling downstairs in her hurry.

The others had all started, but the hall-door was left slightly ajar,
and that of the drawing-room stood wide open, and as she ran past it, a
sudden idea struck the child.

"I'll take Aunt Margaret's prayer-book," she thought.  "It's just about
the same size as mine, and if I keep it open nobody will see any
difference, unless Lell perhaps, and she surely wouldn't be so mean as
to tell, after being so ill-natured to me."

No sooner said than done, and in another minute Chrissie was racing down
the street, book in hand, to overtake the family party, just turning the
corner.

Leila glanced at her.

"You've found it, then?" she whispered, for Chrissie took care to hold
the book so that its cover did not show.  She made no reply, and Leila's
face darkened.

"If you've taken mine after all," she said threateningly, though still
in a low voice, "I'll--"

"I haven't, then," said Chrissie, "I wouldn't touch a thing of yours,
you mean creature."

"I don't believe you," said Leila, catching her arm, so as to see the
book.

"Children," said their mother's voice, warningly.

They started.

"I've got Aunt Margaret's out of the drawing-room," whispered
Christabel.  "There now--if it's found out, it's all your fault," and
Leila, startled, made no reply.

Church-time passed, and more than once Mrs Fortescue, glancing at the
children, was pleased to see that Chrissie appeared to be following the
service with unusual attention.  She would have been less content had
she known that for this there were two reasons.  Firstly, Chrissie was
afraid of closing the prayer-book; secondly, she was interested and
amused by the old-world names she found in it--"His Majesty King
George," "Our gracious Queen Charlotte," etc, etc, the Service for
"Gunpowder's Day," and other now discarded memorials.  It was really
quite "entertaining," but I doubt if her idle, careless thoughts took
part in one single prayer all through the morning, if even one "Our
Father," in which surely the very youngest child, as well as the
humblest and simplest worshipper, can fully join, came from her heart.

Poor Chrissie--poor Leila--sterner teaching was preparing for them.

There was some delay in the church porch, as the congregation was
passing out.

"I do believe it's raining," said Mrs Fortescue, and so it was.  "I
hope you have your umbrellas, children?" she went on.

Yes--Leila had brought hers; but Chrissie, no!  "Really Chrissie," said
her father, "you are too forgetful.  Don't you remember my saying at
breakfast that it looked very like rain?"

Chrissie made no reply; for once she had no excuse to offer.

"Give me your umbrella, Leila," said their mother, "and you take mine--
or, yes, Daddy's," as he hold it out, "that is larger still, and run
home together as fast as you can."

The sisters set off, as they were told, Leila, as the taller, holding
the umbrella.  But oh, how cross she was!  "Too bad's" and "All your
fault's" were hurled at Chrissie, till the rain and the running and the
weight of the rather heavy umbrella, reduced Leila to silence, in spite
of Chrissie's provoking rejoinders.

"My fault indeed!  If you had been good-natured for once and lent me
your other prayer-book I wouldn't have been in such a fuss, and then I
wouldn't have forgotten my own umbrella."

They were both out of breath, and certainly out of temper, when at
last--for distances do seem doubled and trebled in such uncomfortable
circumstances--they reached Spenser Terrace, and flinging the wet
umbrella at Harriet to look after, slowly made their way upstairs to
their own room.

Chrissie tore off her hat and coat with her usual haste.  They were not
very wet after all, but as she was tossing the jacket aside, something
hard bumped against her knee.

"There's something in one of the pockets," she said, feeling in it as
she spoke.  Then out she drew her own prayer-book.  "Look here, Lell,"
she exclaimed, restored to good-humour by her triumph.  "It was in here
all the time--ever since last Sunday, I daresay."

"I daresay," repeated Leila scornfully.  "There never _was_ any one so
careless as you.  You'd better run down and put Aunt Margaret's treasure
back in its place before she misses it."

Christabel started.  She got red, then white.  She glanced at the bed,
where her hat and gloves were lying; she felt in her frock pocket, she
stared at the floor, then in terror and despair she burst out--"Lell,
Lell, what shall I do?  I've lost _it_."

CHAPTER TEN.

PETER'S PLACE.

Leila gasped.  For once, her better feelings came to the surface.  The
enormity of the misfortune aroused her sympathy so fully as to drown
every less amiable feeling.  Then she pulled herself together.

"It _can't_ be lost--you were thinking of it all church-time; you
couldn't have carried it carelessly.  Feel in your other coat packet."

Chrissie shook her head.

"No, no," she said, "I _know_ I didn't put it in my pocket; and now I
remember that the last time I had the _feeling_ of it was in the church
porch, when there was all that fuss about the rain and the umbrellas.  I
dropped it then, or in the street just after, and oh, if it was in the
street, it'll have got soaked in the rain and ruined!  And I do believe
Auntie cares for it more than anything in the world.  It was her
grandmother's.  _Oh_, Leila," and she clasped her hands in misery.

"Don't begin crying about it," said Leila, though not unkindly.  "Let's
hunt about a little," and her eyes wandered round the room.  "Mightn't
you have dropped it on the staircase?"  She turned towards the door, but
Christabel stopped her.  "No, no," she said, "it's no good.  I know now
that I didn't bring it home.  And I hear them all coming in, Leila.
Don't seem to be looking for anything."

"Perhaps we may get it back," said Leila, who could use her wits to
advantage when she aroused herself to give her full attention.  "The
thing to be done is to ask for it at the church.  If we could but get
there by ourselves."  Then her eyes turned to the window.  "I wonder if
it's going to rain all day."

A sudden thought struck Christabel.

"What Sunday is it?  The first of the month!  Oh, I do believe it's the
Sunday when there's a Children's Service in the afternoon, and Mummy
said once that she thought it would be nice for us to go.  Suppose we
ask her to let us?"

"If it leaves off raining," said Leila.  "I don't think we'd be allowed
to go again if it pours.  But it's looking brighter."

"Oh, do let's try to manage it," said Chrissie, clasping her hands.
"I'd rather--well, rather do _anything_, or have the horridest pain,
rather than tell Aunt Margaret that I've lost her book."

"Yes," said Leila, piling on the agony, "for, of course, you couldn't
call it an accident, as you'd no business to take it."

"And if _you'd_ been,"--began Chrissie, but she did not finish the
sentence, for at that moment the gong sounded for the early dinner--on
Sundays now everybody's dinner--and the children had to hurry
downstairs.  On reflection, too, Chrissie said to herself that it would
be "awfully silly" to quarrel with Leila.

"She's been kind about it, and I could never manage without her," she
thought; and as they were entering the dining-room she whispered to her
sister, "_You_ ask; I really daren't."

It was new for Christabel to own to "not daring" about anything in the
world, and Leila felt rather gratified at being trusted in the matter.
Nothing was said till dinner was nearly over; the children were very
quiet and behaved to perfection.  Mrs Fortescue felt pleased.  This
state of things, following on Chrissie's attentive looks in church, made
her begin to hope that her anxieties about her little daughters were
likely to grow less, and inclined her to consent to Leila's unexpected
request.

"Mummy," she said, "Chrissie and I would like to go to the Children's
Service at church this afternoon.  It's the Sunday for it, and we know
the way there quite well, of course.  Mayn't we go?"

Mrs Fortescue smiled.

"I should very much like you to go," she said, "and I think I can quite
trust you by yourselves.  But how about the weather?"

"It is clearing," said Mr Fortescue, "and the glass is going up.  Yes--
I think they may safely go."

Chrissie's face, which had been looking unusually solemn, brightened up.
But it clouded again as her father went on, patting Jasper, who was
seated next him, on the head--

"And this little man?  Wouldn't you like to escort your sisters to
church, Jap?"

"In course I would.  I'll cally your numbrellas and your church-books--
all of them, if you like."

"Then that's settled.  Roley and I are going a good walk," continued Mr
Fortescue.  "We need a breath of fresh air, after working so hard all
the week, don't we, my boy?  And it will give Aunt Margaret and your
mother a nice peaceful afternoon, which I am sure they will be glad of."

"Let's be ready early, Lell," said Chrissie, when they were by
themselves, "and then perhaps we could ask about it as we go in."

"If only Japs wasn't coming," said Leila.  "But if we had seemed not to
want him, they'd have been vexed."

"P'raps he won't notice," said Christabel.

For once they were ready in exceedingly good time--too early, in fact--
so afraid were they of a sudden shower of rain, or any other unlucky
event, stopping their going.  As they ran downstairs their father, who
had not yet started on his walk, called them into the drawing-room--the
door was standing open, and thus he heard them passing.

"Children," he said, "don't try any short-cuts to church.  Go as we went
this morning.  I particularly want you not to go by Peter's Place--you
know where I mean?--a street of small houses round the first corner from
the church."

"Oh yes," replied Chrissie glibly.  "I know.  We did pass that way once,
but it's much nicer to keep to the wide streets."

"Then you quite understand?  You promise to go the way we went this
morning," he repeated.

"Yes, certainly," said the two together.  "Where's Japs?"  Chrissie went
on.  "I wish he'd come."

"I'm here," the little boy called out, running downstairs.  "I'm
pairfitly ready.  I didn't know you'd come down," and off the three set.

"Why did you say that about Peter's Place to the children?"  Mrs
Fortescue inquired.

"Because," Mr Fortescue replied--"because I saw something in the papers
yesterday about an outbreak of scarlet fever there.  It was quickly
stopped, and there are no fresh cases, but anything like that lingers
about, especially in cottage houses of that sort.  And there is not the
slightest need to pass anywhere near the place."

"Of course not," Mrs Fortescue agreed.  "But I am glad you remembered
to warn them."

"It was nothing locally wrong," he added.  "It was brought from a
distance, I saw.  Yes," he added, "on the whole, I suppose we are really
safer in London from epidemics than in most country places."

The children reached the church in good time, but though they glanced
about as they entered, the little girls saw no one of whom to inquire
for the missing prayer-book.

"We must ask as we come out," whispered Leila, for as yet the misfortune
had not been told to Jasper; "and do let us sit in the same place, or as
near as we can to where we were this morning, just _in case_ you dropped
it there."

But Chrissie shook her head.

"No," she replied, "I'm certain I didn't leave it in the church.  It was
out here, I'm almost sure," and her eyes searched all round the porch,
but in vain.

The service was not long, and not dull.  There was a good deal of
singing, which the children enjoyed, and the little address was
interesting and impressive.  It was almost impossible _not_ to listen.

"Oh," thought Chrissie at the close, "if only we can find the
prayer-book, I do think from now I'll try to be less careless, and
`gooder' altogether;" and in her way Leila, too, felt the influence of
the wise and kindly words.

Outside they waited a few minutes till the little crowd of children and
mothers and governesses had dispersed, in hopes of seeing some one from
whom they could get information or advice.  But they saw no one looking
at all like a verger, and almost in despair Chrissie caught hold of a
belated choir-boy, who was passing out.

"Please," she said, "I've lost my prayer-book.  Who is there I can ask
about it?"

The boy stopped.

"Best ask the verger," he replied.  "But you can't see him just now.
He's busy, I know.  If you left it inside, it'll be in the vestry,
pr'aps.  But if you dropped it outside--well, I'm sure I can't say," and
he gave a low whistle; but as he saw the distress on the child's face he
took pity, and went on.  "It _might_ be took to his house, if a honest
person picked it up.  I've known of such.  He's well known about here,
you see--and they might have been passing that way."

"Where is it?" gasped Chrissie.

"Peter's Place," replied the boy, "number twenty-two," and off he ran.

Leila and Chrissie looked at each other.

"Peter's Place," they both exclaimed.

It meant nothing to Jasper, of course, for he had not heard Mr
Fortescue's warning.

"I know," he said.  "It's a funny little street near here.  We could go
home that way, or I could run down from the corner.  I'se so solly,
Chrissie, about your prayer-book.  Is it your best one?"

"No," said Chrissie, "I haven't got a best one.  It's only Lell that
has.  No, it's far, far worse.  Japs," she went on, "you won't tell, for
p'raps we'll get it back and then it'll be all right and I'll _never_ do
such a thing again," and seeing that there was now nothing else for it,
she told Jasper the whole unhappy story.

He grew pale with sympathy: he was too sorry for her, much to blame
though she had been, to say anything to hurt her.  No one certainly
could have called the little fellow a "prig" who had seen him then.  His
one idea was to "help."

"Come along, quick," he said.  "I'll show you the way to his house," and
he sprang forward.

"Chrissie," whispered Leila, "we daren't go--we mustn't go.  We
promised."

"I know," Chrissie replied, "though I daresay Dads only said it for fear
of our losing our way.  As if we were so silly!  But _Japs_ didn't
promise, Lell?"  Leila hesitated--the breaking a promise in the spirit,
if not in the letter, does not come easy to honest consciences, such as
these two little girls did really possess.

"There's nothing else to be done," persisted Christabel, trying to talk
down her own misgivings.  "We won't go home that way, Lell, we'll keep
to the big street, and let Japs run round to the house.  He knows where
it is, and we'll wait for him."

And to this the elder sister at last consented.  "No, Japs," she said,
as he was hurrying them on by what was actually the nearest way to
Peter's Place, "we don't want to go that way.  It's rather slummy.
We'll keep to the wide streets, and when we get to the corner--you know
where I mean?--you can run back, you see, and Chris and I will wait for
you."

"Werry well," said Jasper, "but Peter's Place isn't at all dirty.  It's
kite neat and clean, somefin' like where Nurse's cousin, what Mumsey let
me go to see, lived."

But he was pleased at the importance of being trusted, and ran off
eagerly when they reached the corner in question.

"Japs has a natural affinity for slums," Leila remarked in her rather
lordly manner, as they stood awaiting his return with what patience they
could.  "He'll probably go in for Holy Orders and work himself to death
in the East End, when he grows up."

"He might do worse," sighed Chrissie.  "Any way, I wish I was as good as
he is now."

It seemed a long time--in reality barely ten minutes had passed--before,
hurrying round the further corner from where they were waiting, for
Peter's Place did not run directly out of the main street, they at last
caught sight of the little figure, and--yes, oh joy!--in his uplifted
hand he was waving something,--something too small to be seen
distinctly, but which, from Jasper's manner, there could be no doubt,
was the precious prayer-book.

"Got it! got it!" he shouted, almost before he was near enough for them
to hear what he said.  "It _was_ there.  Somebody picked it up what
lives near, and brought it to the church-man's house."

"Oh Japs, darling Japs, how glad I am," said Chrissie.  "I've never been
so glad in my life.  Now I can put it back on Aunt Margaret's table, and
it'll be all right."

Jasper beamed all over; it was not often that he was spoken to as
"darling" by either of his sisters.  But suddenly a new thought struck
him, and an anxious look came over his face.

"But you'll tell Mumsey all about it, won't you, Chrissie?" he asked.

Chrissie wriggled and Leila frowned.

"I'll see about it," said the former.  "I won't tell her to-day--it's
best not to bother her on Sunday, the only day Daddy's at home."

Leila murmured something, but Jasper did not hear what it was.  Indeed,
he did not listen, and his expression cleared a little.

"Not to-day or any day," had been the elder sister's whisper.  "There's
no need ever to tell."

And great temptation _never_ to do so!  For now, the indirect disregard
of their father's orders as to not passing by Peter's Place had involved
Leila as well as Christabel in confession, if such ever took place.
"And I needn't have been mixed up in it at all, except out of
good-nature to you," she said afterwards to Chrissie; "so if you tell,
it'll be the meanest thing you ever did."

"Why were you so long, Japs?" they asked, rather wishing to change the
subject.  "Did the verger's people make a fuss about giving it to you?"

"Oh no," was his reply, "the minute the little boy's mother sawed me,
she gived it me.  I told her it was a werry old book, though it was so
pretty.  It was lyin' on the table where he was on the sofa, but he said
I must wait till his mother came."

"What _do_ you mean?" said Leila impatiently.  "Who was lying on the
sofa?"

"The little boy--I said the little boy," answered Jasper.  "He's been
werry ill, though he's almost kite better now.  But his mother didn't
let me shake hands wif him--fear of disturbin' him, she said.  She
wasn't werry polite--not _werry_.  She said, `Now, sir, you'd better be
quick and go.'"

"I daresay she was busy," said Chrissie carelessly, "but she didn't need
to say `be quick,' for you didn't want not to be quick."

"In course I didn't.  She'd kept me waitin'," agreed Jasper, whose
feelings had been evidently slightly ruffled.  "I was only shakin'
hands--goin' to, I mean.  Still," he added, with his usual kindliness,
"it was polite of her to say `sir' to me."

By this time they were close to their own house.  Arrived there, the
little girls ran upstairs as quickly as possible.  As quickly as
possible, too, did they take off their hats and jackets, though in spite
of Chrissie's new resolutions I fear I must own that her jacket, if not
hat, found its resting-place on the floor, and as to what became of
boots and gloves I really could not say!

For on their way past the dining-room, the door of which had been
purposely left slightly open, they had heard their mother's voice
begging them to come down at once.  "Tea is ready.  Your aunt and I are
waiting for you," she said.

To be quickly obedient, I am sorry to say, was not the motive that
inspired their haste.

"Now's our time, Lell," said Chrissie.  "There's no one in the
drawing-room.  We can put it back at once on Auntie's table.  I'll just
slip it a little under some of the other things, so if she possibly
_has_ missed it, she'll think afterwards she had made a mistake."

"Do it yourself," said Leila, and then it was that she added her warning
as to what she would think of Chrissie if she ever "told," to which no
reply was vouchsafed.

And the prayer-book was replaced, and when the little sisters made their
appearance, with, as I have said, unusual quickness, in the dining-room,
their mother greeted them with her brightest smiles.

"I really think," she was saying to herself, "that things are beginning
to improve wonderfully with them."

But Aunt Margaret, though always ready to hope and believe the best,
felt less sanguine.  There was a certain flurry and excitement about
Chrissie, a half-veiled uneasiness about Leila, a sort of reluctance in
both to look one frankly in the face, which made her anxious, though she
could have given no real reason for this.

And Jasper was very silent, and for once the cheerful and ever-ready
little fellow seemed absent and self-absorbed.

"What can it be? or am I growing fanciful in my old age?" thought Miss
Fortescue.

The evening passed quietly.  The sisters answered intelligently to a few
questions from their mother about the little "sermon for children" they
had heard, and Jasper added a word or two.  It was evident that all
three had listened with attention, and this somewhat reassured their
aunt.

"Good-night, my darlings," she said, when she kissed them, as they were
all going to bed, for on Sunday evenings Jasper too was allowed to sit
up till eight o'clock.  But--_was_ it fancy?--did not Leila shrink away
a little; was there not a slight catch, as of a very far-away sob, in
Chrissie's throat; and why did Jasper's blue eyes, which always looked
dark at night, strike her as sad and mournful?

"What can it be?" she repeated to herself.

Nor would she have felt reassured, but, on the contrary, still more
perplexed, had she overheard the little boy's whisper as the three made
their way upstairs.

"You will to-morrow, won't you, Chrissie?" and Chrissie's impatient
"Nonsense, Japs.  You're not to interfere--it's no business of yours."

The child went to sleep with a heavy heart.

"And I _were_ so pleased at findin' it," he thought.  "It would all have
been kite happy, if only Chrissie would tell."

For he, of course, had no idea that his very readiness to help in the
matter had been accepted by the others in direct defiance of their
father's warning.

And though the next day and two or three days after were bright and
sunny, and though Leila and Chrissie really seemed more anxious to
please their mother and to keep to her rules, a sort of cloud hung over
the house, though Aunt Margaret was the only one who said to herself,
with increasing misgiving--"The children have something on their minds.
What can it be?"

But before a week had passed, already the impression had faded, if not
entirely, yet very nearly so.  The shame and regret, the wishing, and
for a time meaning, to be, as Chrissie had called it half-jokingly to
herself, "gooder," had no root; they had made fair promise for a moment,
and then they "had withered away."  For if children--and people--allow
themselves just to be governed by their inclinations; to put off till
"more convenient seasons" real penitence, real turning in the right
direction; to fill their minds and thoughts with pleasanter subjects
than their own faults and failings--why, nothing is easier than to do
so!  And, on the other hand, more and more difficult does it become to
take up the good resolutions again.  For in this world we never stand
still in character, any more than in our bodies; every day we are
growing older, and every day, if we are not growing _better_, we are
growing worse.

So the sudden improvement in her two little daughters, which had brought
such happy hopefulness about them to their mother's heart, proved but
sadly passing--indeed, they fell back in several ways, as if, instead of
being the better for making the start, they were the reverse; the truth
being that, after all, their consciences were _not_ at rest, though they
tried to silence them and sometimes succeeded.  The sight of the
prayer-book always gave Chrissie a twinge, and still worse was the look
in Jasper's reproachful eyes, though after a day or two he left of
reminding her of what, in his innocence, he had looked upon as a
promise.

And Leila was as lazy and disobliging as ever, often ungenerously
taunting Chrissie with ingratitude, which naturally led to very unlovely
quarrels.

Neither helped the other in the last.  They grew more and more
unpunctual and careless and ill-tempered.  They only just stopped short
of actual rudeness to poor Miss Greenall, and even the pleasant French
lessons with their aunt, seemed to have lost their flavour.

"Something has gone wrong," she said to herself over and over again.
"What can it be?  I wish I knew what is best to do--how really to make
some impression on them.  I used to think I was able to influence
children," and she could not help sighing.

She little thought that her own words were so soon to come true.
"Sharper lessens will be sent if they do not listen to gentler
teaching," she had said.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

A STERN LESSON.

One morning, rather more than a fortnight after the Sunday I have told
you about, while the three children were at lessons with patient Miss
Greenall in the dining-room, Jasper suddenly put his head down on the
table, and burst into tears.

They all gave a start of surprise; it was so unlike him!

"What is the matter, dear?" asked the governess, very kindly.

"I can't do them," he sobbed, pushing his slate away.  "I can't.  My
head's hurtin' so, and I don't know how to do them."

Miss Greenall looked distressed.

"Perhaps I have given you too difficult sums," she said, for his sums
were the "them" of his lament, and she glanced at the rows of figures.

"How she does spoil him!" whispered Chrissie, adding, as she turned to
Jasper, "I wouldn't be such a baby as to cry about it, if I were you."

But though, as a rule, nothing hurt the little fellow's feelings as much
as any hint of "babyishness," the words seemed to have no effect.  He
just cried on.

Miss Greenall tried to soothe him.

"We'll put away the sums for to-day," she said.  "I know you have tried
to do them, and to-morrow I'll explain them again to you.  Suppose you
do a little writing for a change?  That won't tire your head."

"Werry well," sighed Jasper.  "But I really did try."

"I know you did," his teacher repeated, and she pretended not to see the
half-mocking glances that passed between her elder pupils.

So with half-suppressed sobs and deep-drawn breathings, Jasper set to
work again, and Miss Greenall turned her attention to Leila and
Christabel.

"Is your Mamma at home this morning?" she asked later, as she was
putting on her cloak to leave.  "I should like to see her for a moment."

"No, she's not.  She won't be in till luncheon," Leila replied, none too
politely.  Miss Greenall hesitated.  Then she said, lowering her voice,
"Would you mind telling her that I don't think Jasper is very well?"

"There's nothing the matter with him except that he's a spoilt baby,"
said Chrissie.  "_We're_ not petted if our lessons are difficult."

Miss Greenall said nothing, but a glance, almost of appeal, to Leila,
brought out a condescending reply.

"You really needn't bother about him, but I will tell Mummy if I don't
forget," and with this small amount of response Miss Greenall had to be
content.

Leila did forget, however, and Chrissie did not try to remember, as
might have been expected, and as both their mother and Aunt Margaret
were very busy that day about the sale of some of the Fareham pictures,
Jasper's languor and aching head passed unnoticed.

But the next morning, while Mrs Fortescue was dressing, she was
startled by an unexpected tap at the door, and Roland put in his head.

"Mums," he said, "will you come up and look at Jap?  He's caught cold or
something, and he seems so queer.  He doesn't want to get up, and you
know he's never lazy."

Mrs Fortescue needed no second bidding.  She was in Jasper's little
room in another minute.

"What's the matter, darling?" she asked anxiously.

"My 'hroat's razer sore, Mumsey darlin'," he said, "and I'm tired in my
head.  Must I get up?"

"No, no.  Stay in bed and I'll send up some nice breakfast," she
replied, and as she met Roland following her--"Roley, dear," she said,
"I hope it's only a cold, but I must get the doctor--or a doctor, for
it's so far to send for our own from here."

"Let me go," the boy replied.  "It's better to have some one we know.
I'll take the 'bus and be very quick, and you can give me a note to
explain why I'm late at Mr Banbury's," and he was off, almost before
his mother realised that he was going.

After all it was not so very far to go, and as Roland at once caught the
omnibus, which all but passed Dr Wilkins' door, he was back before
breakfast was finished.

"What's Japs doing?"  Chrissie had asked, as she and Leila made their
appearance, by no means too early.

"He is not well," her mother replied.  "I hope it is only a cold, but--"

"Oh, by-the-bye," Leila interrupted, "Miss Greenall thought he wasn't
well at lessons yesterday."

"Why did she not say so?" said Mrs Fortescue, "it was careless of her."

"N-no," replied Leila hesitatingly, "you and Auntie were out, and--well
she did tell us to speak of it to you, but--"

"She told you, not me.  I'd nothing to do with it," exclaimed Christabel
rather rudely, "and you forgot.  But there wasn't anything to tell.  He
was only cross over his sums, and cried like a baby."

Mrs Fortescue seemed far from pleased.

"Jasper's being cross about _anything_," she said coldly, "certainly
points to his being ill.  I cannot understand neither of you speaking of
it to me."

And it was just then that Roland came in.  Mr Fortescue had already
left--unusually early that morning, as there was a pressure of work at
his office.

"He's coming--I just caught him," said Roland, as he drew in his chair.

"You have been quick, dear," said his mother.  "It is a great relief.
How soon do you think he will come?"

Leila and Chrissie turned to their aunt.

"Where has Roland been?" they asked.  "What is he talking about?"

"He has been to Dr Wilkins," Miss Fortescue replied quietly.

"What a fuss!"  Chrissie muttered.  It was only meant for Leila, but her
aunt, who was by no means deaf, caught the words.

"Mother," Roland went on, "you don't think it can be anything worse than
a cold?  I told the doctor you thought it was a bad chill, but he
questioned me a good bit when he heard Japs was sleeping close beside
me--and he _was_ queer in the night.  Talking nonsense, you know.  Dr
Wilkins asked if he went to school, or had been near any infection.  He
said there had been a lot of scarlet fever near here--in a street called
Peter's Place.  It had been brought in a curious way, and they had some
difficulty in tracing where it came from--that was how he had heard of
it.  It's over now, but if Japs _had_ been near there, you see?"

"No," his mother replied, "that is impossible.  We knew of the illness
there some time ago, and your father warned us.  No--I cannot see that
he has been exposed to any infection."

But she was feeling very anxious--so much so that she did not notice the
strange look that had come over the faces of both her little daughters
as they heard what Roland said.  _She_ did not see that Leila grew white
and Christabel red, but Aunt Margaret's eyes were keen.

"Can it be only nervousness--dread of serious illness?" she said to
herself.  "No, they are far from cowardly.  I fear, I fear, it is
something worse."

But then, for the time being, her mind and thoughts, as well as their
mother's, were too entirely taken up by the sudden new trouble that had
come upon the household, for her to be able to let them dwell on the
increased misgiving that something was wrong, something "on the
children's minds."

Breakfast was cleared away quickly and the two girls told to remain
where they were in the dining-room.  Then Dr Wilkins' brougham drove up
and he came in.  It was still standing at the door when, at ten o'clock,
Miss Greenall punctually made her appearance.

"Is that a doctor's carriage here?" she asked with some anxiety, and
then, glancing at her pupils, she saw that they seemed unusually subdued
and quiet.

"Yes," replied Chrissie.  "It's our own doctor.  He's come to see Japs,
who's got a cold."

Miss Greenall started.

"I hope you told your mother what I said," and she turned to Leila, who
answered vaguely--

"Yes--I told her, but not last night.  He seemed all right again
yesterday afternoon.  He didn't cry or anything."

Miss Greenall only sighed.  But before the regular time for her to leave
had come, Mrs Fortescue looked in at the door.

"Miss Greenall," she said, "will you please leave off lessons now, and
when you have put on your hat, I would like to speak to you in the
drawing-room.  I am going to ask you to do me a favour."

"I will come directly, dear Madam," was the reply.

Then books were closed, slates and pencils, and ink and pens, put away,
and with a rather cold "good-morning" to the children the little
governess left them to themselves.

To themselves--yes--and to their thoughts!

"What does it mean--what's all the fuss about?" at last said Chrissie
irritably.

Leila made no reply.  She stood looking out of the window for a minute
or two.  Then she went to the door and opened it a little.

"What are you doing that for?" asked her sister.

"I want to hear when she goes," said Leila in a low voice, "and then
I'll ask Mummy what's the matter."

Then came the sound of the drawing-room door opening and Miss Greenall
on her way out.

"I'm sure it can be arranged," the children heard her say.  "Mother
always keeps the rooms so nice."

"I am very, very much obliged to you.  It is most good of you to give up
your own," was Mrs Fortescue's reply.

Leila and Chrissie looked at each other in perplexity.  What did it
mean?  But they were not long left in doubt.  Their mother came into the
dining-room.

"Children," she said, "I have to tell you some bad news.  Stand over
there by the window," she went on, and then they noticed that she
herself remained at the door.  "Dr Wilkins has seen Jasper, and--and--"
she seemed to catch her breath, "there is no doubt that it is scarlet
fever.  We must hope for the best, but it may be a bad attack.  A nurse
is coming at once.  It is not very infectious at the beginning, so there
is no reason to be afraid about you two and Roland, so far.  Dr Wilkins
has very kindly offered to have Roley in his own house, so that his
lessons will not be interrupted, and he is packing his things now, to go
at once."

She stopped for a moment.  The children did not speak.

"We have arranged," she went on, "for you and Aunt Margaret to go to
rooms in Mrs Greenall's.  She lets two, and luckily they are vacant,
and Miss Greenall is most kindly giving up her own.  It is near here and
we can hear of each other every day," she sighed.  "How the dear child
has caught it, we cannot imagine," she added, "but he is never as strong
as the rest of you, and therefore perhaps more sensitive.  Now, you must
go upstairs and do your best in the way of packing all you will need.
You will find Aunt Margaret and Harriet in your room, and they will help
you.  I must not see you again, as I shall have to stay with Jasper till
the nurse comes.  But, oh, my dear children, I may trust you, surely?
You _will_ try to be good and obedient and unselfish in this time of
trouble?"

They both looked down.  Then Leila murmured something that sounded like
"we'd far rather stay here."

"Yes," echoed Chrissie, and even this seemed to cheer their mother.
"I'm not afraid of the fever," said Leila, in a strange voice.

"But it would add to all our distress if you did get it," said Mrs
Fortescue, smiling, though sadly enough.

"The unselfish thing is to go, _and_ to be very, very good and
thoughtful."

She turned to leave the room.

"Mumsey," cried Chrissie, and she made a sort of dart forward, but her
voice was husky, and her mother did not hear or see her, and she stopped
short.

"What were you going to say to her?" questioned Leila gloomily.

"_You_ know," was the reply.

"What good would it do?" said Leila.  "It can't be undone--and perhaps
he didn't get it that day.  It's so long ago."

"It's always like that," said Chrissie.  "I remember about Miss Earle.
She had to stay away once for three weeks to see if she didn't get it,
after her sister had had it.  Leila," she went on, "you said you weren't
afraid of it.  _I_ am--awfully."

Leila looked at her in surprise.

"Yes," said Christabel, "I wouldn't dare to be very ill--and p'r'aps--
you know--not get better, after being so wicked.  Yes, wicked.  Worse
than you, I know.  You needn't think I don't know that."

"I wasn't thinking about it," said Leila.  "_I_ thought if they let me
help to nurse Japs, it would be a sort of make-up, and if I did get it,
that would do for a punishment, and would put it all straight, you see."

"No, I don't see.  It would make it all worse," said Chrissie irritably.
Deep down in her heart, she knew well what would be the first step to
take towards "putting it straight" but the impulse to confession had
faded again, leaving only enough uneasiness to make her cross and
quarrelsome.

Just then Harriet appeared.

"If you please," she said timidly, "Miss Fortescue says aren't you
coming up to help about your things?"

They turned to go.

"What's going to happen to _you_, Harriet?" asked Chrissie recklessly.
"Are you going to be turned out too?"

Harriet smiled in calm superiority.

"I've had it, Miss," she said, "and of course your Mamma couldn't nohow
do without me.  I'd never dare look Aunt--that's Nurse, you know, Miss--
in the face again if I didn't do my best."

"She's much better than we are," thought Christabel.

That very morning--no, for they did not go till after the early dinner--
saw the two girls and Miss Fortescue established in Mrs Greenall's
scrupulously neat and clean, but very tiny, rooms.  Spenser Terrace had
seemed small in comparison with their old home, but here it looked as if
the whole house could have been fitted into their former nursery!

"There is one advantage in very close quarters," said Aunt Margaret, as
she busied herself in unpacking and arranging their belongings.  "You
_have_ to be neat.  It is rather like being on board ship."

Leila sighed and Chrissie wriggled, but neither grumbled.  How indeed
could they have done so?  For besides the miserable consciousness which
they were doing their best to stifle, was there not the "object lesson"
of their aunt's utter self-forgetfulness and devotion--old woman as she
almost was--cheerfully accommodating herself to what, with the habits of
her life, _could_ not but be very trying, to say the least?

"What _would_ she think of us--worst, of course, of _me_--if she
_knew_," thought Christabel, little suspecting that Aunt Margaret's
still keen eyes were at that very moment noting the expression on her
face.

"She is very unhappy," said Miss Fortescue to herself, "and so is Leila.
Poor children!  They have more feeling than sometimes has seemed the
case.  And if--if their consciences are not at rest, this trouble,
whatever it is that they are remorseful about--this trouble _may_ be a
turning-point for them."

A day or two passed, quietly enough.  Miss Greenall attended to the
little girls' lessons as usual, in the afternoon their aunt went out
with them, and in the evening they read French with her.  They were
obedient and subdued; never had their governess found them so easy to
manage, and she, naturally, put this state of matters altogether down to
their anxiety about little Jasper, and liked them the better for it.

But when they were alone together, things were less smooth.  Leila was
peevish and inclined to "cast up" to Christabel the greater amount of
blame due to her, and Christabel was not of a character to bear this
patiently.  With their careless habits, the small rooms and close
quarters--fresh and bright as Mrs Greenall and her one small
maidservant kept everything--were a great trial.  Tidyings-up seemed to
be needed every hour of the day, and by degrees, as the first shock of
their little brother's illness wore off, they grew more selfishly alive
to their own really very trifling discomfort.

"I'm sure we're punished enough," said Chrissie one morning when they
were arguing about first turn at the tiny toilet-table.  "There's Japs
having quite a good time of it, after all--everybody fussing and petting
him.  And Roland treated like a grown-up man at Dr Wilkins's!  I
daresay he goes in to late dinner."

"But they've done nothing to be punished for," said Leila, "and _I_,"--
she changed her mind, and went on, "there's Mummy, and Aunt Margaret, as
well as us."

"Mummy adores Japs so--she loves nursing him, I'm sure," replied
Chrissie; "and as for Auntie--well, I suppose she's a saint and angel,
and I don't pretend to be."

"It wouldn't be much good if you did," remarked Leila drily.  "You'd
better hurry up or _you'll_ be the late one this morning."

Breakfast was all ready and Aunt Margaret at the table when they went
in.  But almost at once the children became conscious of a change in her
face and tone; it almost seemed as if she had been struggling to keep
back her tears, and tears, to the old, seldom come lightly.

"Is--is anything wrong?" asked Leila tremblingly, and all in a moment
something came over Christabel--she felt as if her heart had stopped
beating.

"Yes," said Miss Fortescue.  "Darlings, we must be brave and hopeful
still--and better than all, we must earnestly pray that he may be spared
to us--but--I cannot hide it from you.  There is sad news this morning--
little Jasper has had a bad turn of some kind in the night.  He is very,
_very_ ill."

"Who said so--who brought word of it?" said Chrissie with a strange sort
of fierceness in her tone; "p'r'aps it's not true."

Miss Fortescue shook her head.

"Miss Greenall went herself, as she has done every morning," she
replied; "she has been so kind; and when she rang, your mother spoke to
her out of the window.  She has done so twice a day, you know, and till
now she looked quite cheerful.  But this morning--the poor girl scarcely
knew how to tell me.  Edith was quite calm, but, oh dear, dear--she just
said what I have told you.  The darling is terribly ill--I don't
think--" but here the poor old lady, brave as she was, turned away.  She
could say no more.

"Have they sent for Dr Wilkins?" asked Leila, and her voice sounded
quite unlike itself.

"Oh yes," replied Aunt Margaret.  "He has been there half the night, and
is coming again this morning."

"Can't Miss Greenall go back now to ask if he's any better?"  Leila went
on.

"It would be no use just yet," Miss Fortescue said sadly.  "There cannot
be anything more to hear for some time.  While you are at your lessons,
I think perhaps I will go round myself--not to go in, of course, but to
speak to your mother through the window."

"Lessons," repeated Leila, "we can't do lessons.  We can't be expected
to."

"My dears," said their aunt, "you must do something.  No one knows
better than I do, how miserably trying such anxiety is, but it would be
worse if you hung about doing nothing.  One must face these things in
life, and try to be patient.  Sickness and sorrow come to all."

Then for the first time Chrissie spoke.

"Yes," she said, "I suppose they do, but--oh, oh--if it was only that!"
and so saying, she rushed out of the parlour and locked herself into the
little bedroom that she shared with Leila.

"Poor Chrissie," said Miss Fortescue, and the knowledge of what her
sister was feeling made Leila look up sharply.  Did Aunt Margaret
suspect anything?  She was moving away, when Miss Fortescue went on
speaking.  "Leave her alone for a little.  You can keep some breakfast
for her on the side-table.  Finish your own, and then the things must be
cleared, and you can get out your books," and Leila, herself in a
turmoil of misery, silently obeyed.

And somehow or other the morning passed.  With swollen eyes and burning
cheeks Chrissie came back after a while and drank some milk, and the two
went through a sort of pretence of lessons with kind Miss Greenall, who
was patience and gentleness personified.  Then Aunt Margaret came in,
but with no cheering report.

"Just the same," she said; and after dinner she made the children come
out with her for an hour or two, and in a dull stupor of wretchedness
they paced along beside her, feeling as if nothing in all the world
mattered in the least, if only Jasper were well again, or--crueller
still--if only _they_ had not been the cause of this terrible illness!

For by this time, I think, Leila's misery and self-reproach were as
severe as Chrissie's.

Later in the evening Miss Greenall, as had been arranged, went off again
for news.  It was nearly the children's bedtime when she returned, and
catching sight of her face as she came into their sitting-room, Miss
Fortescue turned quickly to them.

"It is quite time for you to go, dears," she said.  "I will come in to
say good-night, and will tell you if there is anything different."

But they, too, had seen the girl's white face and tremulous lips.

"No, no," cried both together, "let her say it before us.  Aunt
Margaret, we _must_ hear."

And then the dreaded word came.

"Worse," and with a burst of irrepressible tears, for she was only a
girl herself, she went on confusedly, "they scarcely think--Dr Wilkins
is afraid--he may not live through the night."

Poor Miss Fortescue, who had risen from her chair, staggered back into
it.  Miss Greenall had already rushed away.  Leila stood by the table as
if turned to stone, white as a sheet.  Christabel, the tears pouring
again from her still swollen and aching eyes, flung herself on the floor
before her aunt.

"I must tell, I must," she sobbed in wild despair.

"I can't bear it, Lelly, I _can't_, and you needn't be afraid.  I was
the worst.  You meant to help me.  I'll take all the blame--all, all--
I'll--oh, what can I do?  I'd be cut in pieces if it would do any good.
Oh Japs, Japs, my own little Japs!  Auntie, Auntie, listen--it was all
me."

Miss Fortescue raised her without speaking and drew her on to her knee.

"I am listening, my child," she said.

And then, between choking sobs and torrents of tears, came the story
that we know.  The whole story--without excuses, without slurring over
the sad wrongness of it all, in any way, till at the end the miserable
little face hid itself on her aunt's shoulder while she murmured--

"Can I ever be forgiven?  Is it any use for _me_ to pray for Japs to get
better?  I haven't dared to before--oh Auntie, Auntie."

It was, under the circumstances, a terrible confession to hear, though,
at the root of it all, was nothing worse than childish carelessness and
disobedience, followed, all too naturally, alas, by concealment and
deceit.  And for a moment, or two Miss Fortescue felt as if she could
scarcely speak.

"How could they?  How _could_ they?" she said to herself.  But when
Leila, too, flung herself upon her, in less stormy but still agonised
penitence, saying over and over again, "I've been as much to blame.  I
have.  I was older and I knew how wrong it was.  Poor Chrissie--you were
no naughtier than I was," a strange sort of calm, almost of joy, came
over Aunt Margaret.

"The lesson they needed--was this to be it?" she thought.  "Oh, if the
darling can yet be restored to us--if only our prayers may be granted."

And the very thought brought hope again, and strength to speak the best
and wisest words to the two broken-hearted little girls--words which
they never would forget--true in their earnest, even stern, blame of the
small wrong-doings which had led to greater, yet full of loving sympathy
and encouragement.

But the night which followed--of broken sleep and waking to fresh fits
of misery; of miserable dreams, and flashes of hopefulness--gone as soon
as they came!--the night was a dreadful one.

"Will the morning never come?" thought Chrissie as she woke for the
twentieth time, to hear Leila's half-stifled sighs and moans beside her.
For the morning must bring news--if no better, it must be worse.

And as often happens in such cases, their first _sound_ sleep was after
dawn.  And when they opened their weary eyes, Aunt Margaret was standing
there, with, thank God, a smile on her face.

"Yes," she said, before they could ask the question half-choking them.
"Yes--a shade better.  They are hopeful."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

SEA-BREEZES.

And the hopefulness grew.  For the improvement continued.  That night of
terrible anxiety had brought the crisis and the turning-point in more
ways than one!

The news at noon was still good, by the evening better still, and
thankfulness beyond words filled the hearts of Aunt Margaret and her
little grand-nieces.  And when the next day, and the days following,
saw, in spite of some ups and downs of course, less and still lessening
cause for anxiety, the thankfulness grew and grew and began to bear
fruit.  Never, I think I may safely say, never, in the course of their
short lives, had Leila and Christabel been really happier than during
the weeks they had still to remain at Mrs Greenall's, though the rooms
were small and crowded; the food plain, though neatly cooked; though
they had to dress themselves and put away their hats and jackets, and
even, now and then, under Aunt Margaret's supervision, sew on a button
and darn holes in their stockings!  There were "ups and downs" in all
this too, of course, as well as in little Jasper's recovery; bad habits
are seldom to be uprooted all at once; they are terribly clinging!  But
so, we may gratefully allow, are good ones also--a week of steady
perseverance in doing a right thing, small though it may be, is
something like "compound interest," if you have come to that rule in
your sums.  It is really astonishing to find what progress may be made
in the time.

"I really think, Auntie, we are beginning to learn to be neater and
carefuller," said Chrissie one Sunday morning when, passing their room
on the way downstairs to go to church, she begged Miss Fortescue to
"peep in."

She glanced up brightly as she said it, and her aunt's smile in return
was bright also.  But then Chrissie's face clouded.

"There's only one thing that keeps us miserable," she murmured.

"Yes," Leila agreed; "it always comes over me early in the morning, but
Chrissie minds it most at night."

"When I say my prayers," whispered Chrissie.

"So we've made a plan," Leila went on, "of not talking--except just what
we _have_ to, you know, either dressing or undressing."

"A very good plan at all times," said Miss Fortescue, "even when there
is no special reason for it.  When I was a child, it was a rule among
us.  It keeps tempers and feelings calm and quiet in a wonderful way to
begin and end the day in silence.  But what is this one thing that
distresses you so?"

Both children looked down.  Then there came the whisper--"Can't you
guess, Auntie?  It's Mummy's _not knowing yet_--Mummy and Daddy."  Miss
Fortescue stooped to kiss them.

"Dears," she said, "I can give you some comfort.  They _do_ know--only a
day or two ago I wrote a long letter to your mother.  She cannot write
back, as it might bring infection, but she spoke to me out of the window
yesterday.  I was to tell you--I was only waiting for a quiet time this
afternoon--to tell you that they both, Daddy and Mummy, send you their
full and loving forgiveness."

Chrissie drew a deep breath of relief.

"I think God has forgiven us by making Japs get better," she said.

"Need _he_ ever know?" asked Leila.

"Not about the way he caught the illness," said Aunt Margaret.  "We
think it better not.  But about the prayer-book, yes.  From what you
both told me, that was evidently on his mind, and it will make him happy
to know that Chrissie has at last kept what he believed to be a promise.
You must not see your mother, dears, before she takes Jasper to the
seaside, as the house has to be thoroughly disinfected, but when they
go--next week we hope--she is planning to pass by us on their way to the
station, so that she, and perhaps little Jasper, may nod and smile to
you."

"Auntie," said Leila, "I'm afraid it'll all cost a lot--doing the house,
and the doctor and the nurse, and going to the seaside, and even us at
Mrs Greenall's; and it needn't have been, and we've so little money
now."

"Yes," replied her aunt.  By this time they were on their way to church.
"Yes, that is true.  Still, that is really a small trouble compared to
what might have been, if--" and though she said no more they understood.

She was not one to "pile on the agony" or to tell them how almost
overwhelmingly difficult it was to meet these utterly unlooked-for
expenses.

"They are so young still," she said to herself, "but it is delightful to
see real consideration and thoughtfulness beginning gradually to grow in
them."

The spring, unfortunately, was a cold and late one that year.  April was
fairly advanced before the doctor gave leave for Jasper to be taken away
for change of air, or to do more than walk up and down for a very few
minutes in the best time of the day.  A sadly thin and white little
creature he looked the morning that, as had been promised, the
four-wheeler, with luggage on the top and his mother and himself inside,
drove slowly past Mrs Greenall's house, where Leila and Chrissie and
Aunt Margaret were eagerly on the look-out.  Then there were nods and
smiles and kissings of hands--but when the little girls drew their heads
in again and shut the window, their aunt was scarcely surprised to see
that there were tears in their eyes.

"He does look _so_ ill," they murmured, "and poor Mummy taking him away
all alone, without a nurse or a maid."

"They will be all right when they get to Seabay," she replied; "for
there they will be at your old nurse's mother's.  You have often been
there--it is so near Fareham.  She has a nice little house with two
rooms that she lets.  It would not have done to go to a hotel, even if
we could have afforded it, just for fear of any lingering infection,
though your mother says Jasper has been bathed and carbolic-ed and I
don't know all what--and their clothes stoved and boiled!  In a
fortnight or so from now, the house will be perfectly safe, and we shall
be able to go back there and make everything nice for them to return
to," she added cheerfully.

But still the children sighed.

"I'm glad they're going to Seabay," said Leila, "only it'll make Mummy
rather sad to be so near Fareham and for it not to be ours any more."

"My dears," said their aunt, "I truly do believe that nothing of that
kind could make her sad just now.  All her heart is filled with
thankfulness--and, my little girls, hopefulness too.  She is looking
forward to a happier home life than you have ever yet had, and I do not
think she will be disappointed?"

"We do mean to try," murmured Chrissie, and the way in which the simple,
humble words were said showed that the good seed had taken root.

And now, for a little change, we are going to leave Leila and Christabel
and their aunt, and travel to Seabay with Jasper and his mother.  A
fine, mild day had been chosen for the journey, and if any of you who
read this story have ever known what it was to be very ill and to get
better again, you can picture to yourselves our little boy's delight at
being out once more and able to enjoy the _open_ air and the bright
spring sunshine.  Even the drive in the four-wheeler was full of
pleasure, and once he was comfortably settled in the railway carriage,
in a corner by the window, you may be sure his face beamed with
satisfaction.

Yet what a small white face it looked!  Full of thankfulness and
hopefulness as his mother was, she could scarcely keep back a little
sigh as she glanced at him.

"You are sure you are quite warm, darling?" she said.

"Pairfitly, Mumsey darlin'," was the reply: and then he added, "It's
very nice, isn't it, in this comfable train, and mayn't I dig on the
sands when we get there?"

"Soon, dear, I hope," said his mother, "but just at first we must be
very careful, you know, for fear of your catching cold."

"It would have been nice if Lelly or Chrissie could have come too," he
went on.  "Chrissie likes digging and makin' sand castles, doesn't she,
Mumsey?"

"Yes, I am sure she does.  But you see, dear, it's best for you not to
be with your sisters just yet, for fear of their possibly catching the
fever, even though it is not very likely."

"I know," said Jasper.  "Poor Chrissie--I am so glad she told Auntie
about the prayer-book.  I fink she'd never have been kite happy if she
hadn't, would she, Mumsey?" and again his mother agreed with him.  And
after a while the excitement and the air began to make the still
delicate little fellow sleepy.  His head began to nod, and Mrs
Fortescue put her arm round him, and it was not till they were just
drawing up at the station that he fairly awoke.

There was a drive of a mile or two to Seabay, and by the time they
reached their destination, Jasper was as lively as ever, pointing out
the places he remembered, the grand hotel they had stayed at the year
before, the donkey-boys' stand, and other interesting objects.  Nurse's
mother's house was a very small one, standing in a row of neat modest
little dwellings with tiny gardens in front.  But to Jasper's happy
feelings it was all perfectly delightful, and indeed, in its humble way,
the house was quite comfortable.  Nurse's mother had done her utmost--
all was exquisitely clean and fresh, and she herself eager to do
everything she possibly could for her guests.  For she felt their coming
to her a great honour--neither she nor her daughter being the sort of
people to think any less highly of "the family" in these days of
adversity.

So Mrs Fortescue was able to send a cheerful letter to both Aunt
Margaret and to "Daddy"--poor Daddy, so busy at his office that he had
not even been able to see them off at the station!

And the days passed very peacefully.  For the weather on the whole was
fine, and Jasper was able to be out a great deal, though principally in
a bath-chair, as his poor little legs were still too weak to allow of
his walking for more than a very short time.

The bath-chair man was a relation of their landlady; a good careful old
fellow, and more than once, when Mrs Fortescue was very tired--walking
beside a bath-chair is harder exercise than it looks!--or had many
letters to write, she let Jasper go out alone in his carriage, well
wrapt up and quite content in his human horse's company.  Thus it
happened one day when they had been more than a week at Seabay.  It was
a very warm afternoon for April, and Mrs Fortescue told old Evans that
he might draw up on the terrace facing the sea, for part of the time,
and let Jasper watch the people walking about and the children on
donkeys or digging on the sands, for already, on a very fine day like
this, the regular summer customs were beginning.

The old man did as he was told, and Jasper sat in his nest, warm and
comfortable and perfectly content.  Suddenly he heard a small voice
beside him, and glancing round, he saw a very little girl gazing up at
him with great interest, not unmingled with awe.  She was a pretty
little creature, charmingly dressed in white, looking about four years
old, and she seemed to be quite alone.  It was not in our little boy's
nature not to smile at her, and then she took courage.

"Is you hurted your foots?" she said; "can't you walk or 'tand?"

"No," said Jasper, "it's not my feet.  I've been ill and my legs gets
tired if I walk much."

"Poor 'ittle boy!" she said pityingly.  "Was it werry sore to be ill?
I'd like to kiss you, to make it better?" and she came close to the
bath-chair, raising herself on tip-toe with the evident intention of
kissing him.  But a sudden remembrance flashed into Jasper's mind.

"No, darlin'," he said in great distress, "no, no.  I were forgettin'.
You mustn't come near me.  You mustn't kiss me.  Oh, I can't explain.
She wouldn't understand.  Is there nobody wif you--not your nurse or
nobody?" he cried, on the point of tears by this time.

"Yeth, there's Gran," the baby was beginning, when another voice came
from behind the chair, the new-comer having approached from that side.

"Why, what's the matter, Lily?" it said; "you've not been teasing this
young gentleman, I hope?" for Jasper's distress was too plain to be
unnoticed.  "She is sometimes a little too _friendly_," he went on,
"though she means well, don't you, my pet?"

"Oh no, no, she was sweet and kind," said the boy; "please send her
furzer away and I'll explain," and so he did--most clearly and
sensibly--when the grey-haired stranger had called to the nursemaid, who
now made her appearance with a donkey and donkey-boy whom she had been
to fetch, and Lily was safely escorted off.

"I was only strolling about with her till the donkey came.  She is my
grand-daughter.  And it is very good of you, my little fellow, to be so
thoughtful, though I shouldn't think there's much risk now.  You've been
here some days, I suppose, and the sea-breezes blow away infection
finely."

"But he's been pretty ill," he added to himself, "or else he's very
delicate."

"Do you always live in London?" he went on, and feeling interested in
the child, by one or two kindly questions he drew out a good deal of the
Fortescue family history.

"Fortescue," he repeated, "and `Fareham.'  Why, then I'm your father's
tenant now!  I must see if we haven't some Fareham grapes for you--or
I'll tell them to send you some direct.  Tell me your whole name, my
boy;" and Jasper, well pleased, replied--

"Jasper's my first name.  `Jasper Greville Fortescue,' that's it all."

The look of interest deepened on the gentleman's face.

"Jasper," he said musingly; "a very uncommon name, to begin with.  But
Jasper _Greville_, the two together!  It's an extraordinary coincidence,
if no more."

"Greville," said Jasper, "Greville was Mumsey's name 'afore she married
Daddy, and I was called it after _her_ Daddy, you see; and oh, there's
Mumsey herself," as he caught sight of his mother coming towards them.

She looked a little surprised at seeing her boy on such friendly terms
with a stranger, but a few words explained the whole, after which Mr
Maynard introduced himself as the present occupier of Fareham.  Then
Evans was told to move on again slowly, Mrs Fortescue and Lily's
grandfather following.

"Mumsey's" heart was soon won by Mr Maynard's praise of Jasper.

"Such a thoughtful little fellow," he said.  "When I was his age I am
sure it would never have entered my head to warn off any one when I was
recovering from one of the illnesses so much commoner among children in
those days.  But your boy looks delicate--does London suit him?  I'm
afraid," he went on, hesitating a little, "I'm afraid you must miss
Fareham a great deal.  We find it so healthy--Lily is twice the child
she was.  She and her mother live with us.  My daughter's husband was
killed in the war."

"How very sad!" said Mrs Fortescue gently.  Then after a moment's pause
she went on--"Jasper has never been as strong as my other children, but
I don't think it's the fault of London.  We have always been there six
or eight months of the year."

"I know what would set him up," Mr Maynard remarked.  "A sea voyage!  I
am a great believer in sea voyages--had so many of them, you see, for
I've spent most of my life in Australia."

"Indeed," said Mrs Fortescue with interest, for this explained the
slight touch of abruptness in her new friend's manner, as well as some
small peculiarities of tone and pronunciation.  "I wish we could send
him--or take him, rather--a voyage, but it is now quite impossible."

"Ah, yes--I suppose so," he replied, but rather absently.  Then he
turned to her again with a kind of eagerness.

"`Jasper,' your little fellow is called, he told me--`Jasper Greville.'
Excuse my asking if they are family names."

"Yes," said Mrs Fortescue, a little surprised, "they were my father's.
My name before I married was `Greville.'  We wanted to preserve them,
for, strangely enough, my family has completely died out."

"I have met `Grevilles,'" said Mr Maynard.

"Oh yes--there are plenty of _Grevilles_, but none with whom we can
trace any connection.  I was an only child, and so was my father.  I was
left an orphan very young and brought up by my mother's people.
`Jasper' was the name for the eldest sons in our family for generations,
I believe."

"It is a very uncommon name," Mr Maynard said.  Then seeing Lily on her
donkey coming towards them, he lifted his hat in farewell, just stopping
for a moment to ask if he might venture to send some grapes to the
little invalid--"Fareham grapes," with a half-apologetic smile.  And of
course Mrs Fortescue thanked him, and gave him the address of their
present modest home.

And the next day, and several other times besides, the grapes arrived--
and a lovely basket of flowers with them.  But of Mr Maynard and his
little Lily they saw no more.

"Most likely," said Mrs Fortescue, "they only drove over from Fareham
for the day, to give the child a breath of sea-air.  But I am glad to
have seen them.  It is pleasant to think that kind, nice people are
living at dear Fareham."

How surprised she would have been if she had known the thoughts in Mr
Maynard's mind as he walked away, after his talk with her!

"I will write at once," he said to himself.  "It is better to hear from
old Greville first before speaking of the possibility to them.  He may
be dead--in which case he will have left everything to public object--
hospitals and so forth, as he said to me.  What a sweet woman she is,
and that dear boy!  I can write with real interest about them, and
sympathy.  Things must have been very hard upon them, I fear."

A week or two more brought the visit to Seabay to a close.  Jasper, by
this time, was able to take a fair amount of exercise on his own little
legs, which were a good deal firmer and stronger than when he first
came.  Mrs Fortescue, too, was feeling rested and refreshed, and she
was delighted to return home and be all together again.  For Aunt
Margaret's letters continued to give very cheering accounts of her two
charges.

"They really are earnestly trying to overcome all the tiresome habits
and thoughtless ways which made us so anxious about them," she wrote,
"and this is truly encouraging, as it shows that the impression made on
them has not been a passing one.  Of course there are--there must be--
fallings back and disappointments sometimes, but even from these they
may learn new experience and strength."

The little house in Spenser Terrace had been thoroughly disinfected and
was looking fresh and bright in the sunshine--for it was a real "May
day"--the afternoon on which Jasper and his mother returned home.  The
boy was in a state of happy excitement, and his cheeks were flushed and
rosy as the four-wheeler drew up at the door.

"It will be so nice to be wif zem all again," he murmured, adding to
himself, "and I _are_ so glad Chrissie told about that church-book."

Yes--there they were--all at the door to meet the travellers.  Aunt
Margaret, Leila and Christabel, and Roland, just back from his tutor's.

"Darlings," exclaimed their mother, "what a long, long time it seems
since I kissed you all!" and--

"Darlin's," echoed Jasper, "and we've brought some grapes from Fareham.
That kind man sent us lots!  Didn't he, Mumsey?" and he had quite a
story to tell his sisters about "meetin'" the little girl on the
seashore, with her grandfather, and how "frightened" he'd been of her
kissing him and catching the fever, and all the rest of it.

"He's not looking ill, I don't think," said Christabel when she was
alone with Leila.  "His face was quite nice and rosy."

"Just at first," replied Leila.  "He was so glad to see us all.  But he
looked very white after tea, and his cheeks are very thin," and she
sighed.

"Well," said Chrissie, with a touch of the sharpness she was trying to
overcome, "you needn't be so gloomy about him.  _I'm_ going to be gooder
to him than I've ever been, and if you are too, he'll just get fat with
happiness."

And so daily life got back into its usual round again.  But with--oh,
such a difference!

"Everything seems so much nicer at home now," said Christabel one day
with satisfaction.  "Of course it may be partly the weather," which
_was_ very bright and pleasant during that early summer.

"Yes," said Aunt Margaret, "if you include the invisible `weather' as
well, Chrissie dear, I can quite agree with you," and though Jasper
looked rather puzzled, the little girls "understood."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

FROM ACROSS THE WORLD.

I have reached, I see, the _thirteenth_ chapter of my story!  And
thirteen is supposed to be an unlucky number.  Nevertheless, I scarcely
think it would be fair to any children who have read to the end of
chapter twelve, to stop short there, even though things are now in a
much happier position in the little house at Spenser Terrace than they
were a few chapters back.

Besides, I really have something more to tell about my small hero and
his family, and though at first it may not sound very cheerful, I think,
before we have to say good-bye to each other, you will agree with me
that this time the number thirteen does not bring bad luck with it.  So
now I will go on with this family history.

That early summer, even in the rather dull out-skirt, where Spenser
Terrace is situated, was really bright and pleasant, and for some weeks
after the return from the seaside no one felt specially anxious about
Jasper, though he certainly did not gain strength very satisfactorily.

"It takes a good while for a rather delicate child to recover thoroughly
from such an extremely sharp attack as his was," said the doctor when he
called one day.  "Of course it would have been _better_ to have kept him
much longer at the seaside or in the country.  But no doubt, when the
weather becomes hot, you will be planning another change for him.  It
would not do for him to be in London if it grew oppressively warm."

And Mrs Fortescue did not like to say how exceedingly difficult it
would be to manage any change of any kind for any of them!  The expenses
of the illness and all it brought about had already exhausted the very
small sum they were able to scrape together, beyond what was actually
necessary for every-day life, and the prospect of sending Roland to
Winton by the autumn was growing sadly uncertain.  But to Dr Wilkins,
though he was such a very old friend, poor "Mumsey" said nothing.

"It would look," she thought, "as if I was hinting for him to invite
Jasper to his own country house--and even if he did so, I could not let
the darling go without a nurse or a maid of some kind, and Mrs Wilkins
is rather too old to be troubled with children.  It was most good of her
to have Roley, but of course he is able to look after himself."

So indeed--remembering his seven years only--was Jasper; quite
wonderfully self-helpful and independent.  Or rather he _had_ been so
before his illness.  But of late, more than once, his mother had said to
him, laughingly, that he was "growing into a baby again;" he was so
clinging and quiet, though always sweet and unselfish.

"Everything's so tirin', Mumsey darlin'," he said, "and Lelly and
Chrissie does spoil me so.  They'se always fetchin' my fings, and they
won't never let me run messages, scarcely.  But please, Mumsey darlin',
might I not go out a walk to-day, but just stay here 'aside you?"

And day by day the pitiful little request was repeated, though it _had_
to be refused.  For even if the small legs ached and the feet dragged
along rather painfully, air, fresh air, he _must_ have, if he was ever
to get stronger, or even not get worse!

"I wish we had old Evans and his bath-chair here for you," said his
mother one day, feeling rather in despair.

"There is a stand of them about a mile off," said Roland.

"I know," replied she, "but the hire is very dear.  Nearly as much as a
hansom, and they would charge extra to come so far, I suspect," with a
sigh.

Now and then the little patient cheered up and grew more like his old
active little self again.  Sometimes on a Saturday afternoon his father
took him an hour or two's drive in a hansom, which nowadays was, of
course, a great treat, and brought some colour into his cheeks.  But,
alas! it soon faded again, and he seemed more tired than usual on Sunday
morning, so that there was no question of church for him, and Jasper
liked going to church!  Then, as June advanced, there came a spell of
August heat, and though it lessened somewhat after a few days, it left
him whiter and thinner and more exhausted.

"We must do something," thought Aunt Margaret, "or he will be slipping
out of our hands altogether," and that afternoon she shut herself into
her own room for some time, to decide what that something must be.
"Yes," she said to herself, "I must do it, but I will tell the dear
little girls first.  It will do them no harm to be consulted," and she
quietly called them to come to her.

She was seated at her writing-table, with two or three small, somewhat
old-fashioned, jewel cases before her.

"Leila dear, and Chrissie," she said as they came in, looking rather
surprised at her summons, "I am going to confide in you.  We are not
happy about Jasper.  He is not improving, and he must have country or
sea-air if he is ever to grow quite strong."

"I know," said Leila, growing pale.  "Chris and I are _very_ miserable
about him, aren't we, Chrissie?--for of course--" but here her voice
failed her: and as for Chrissie, she was already in tears.

"The lesson _has_ been a lasting one," thought their aunt, and she was
thankful to see it.  But she was not one to "break the bruised reed."

"Leave the past, darlings," she said, "that is all over and forgiven.
What I want to tell you is that you may help me to do something for our
dear boy," and as she spoke she opened two ring boxes, showing their
contents.  There were two beautiful, though not very large, diamond
rings--of different designs, but about the same size.  The children
gazed at them in admiration.

"These are the only jewels of any value that I have kept," she said,
"and they are not _very_ valuable, but they are old family ones, and I
meant them for you two.  I know the pair would sell for forty or fifty
pounds--enough, with care, to get a little country cottage for two or
three months where we could take it in turns to be with Jasper.  But I
count them really _yours_, you see?" and she looked up at them.

"Oh, sell them, sell them.  Auntie darling," cried both the children
together.  "Thank you, oh, thank you, for letting us join in it.  When
can you settle about it, dear Auntie?"

"To-morrow morning, I think," was the reply.  "I will tell no one but
you two, dears, and perhaps Mummy will let one of you go with me to a
jeweller I know.  I am rather nervous about omnibuses still.  And then
when we bring back the money, we will all three together give it to your
mother, and talk over what will be the best place.  Perhaps Seabay
again--it seemed to suit him."

And so it was settled.  But, strange to say, the plan was _not_ carried
out!  The dear old rings were never sold.  They are on Leila's and
Chrissie's fingers at this very moment.  And how this came about, I must
hasten to tell you.

Something had happened which even Aunt Margaret had not yet been told.
"We must not raise false hopes till we know more about it all.  Dear
Aunt has been through so much strain already," Mr and Mrs Fortescue
had thoughtfully decided.

But at the very time that the consultation was taking place about the
rings, another and most important one was being held in a private room
at a certain hotel, where, after several letters had passed between Mr
Fortescue and his tenant at Fareham, it had been arranged that the
three--for Mrs Fortescue was particularly required--should meet.

This was the subject of it.  You will remember that Mr Maynard had been
strangely struck by the name "Jasper Greville."  It was that of a very
old man--a gentleman--whom he had known for several years in Australia.
This Mr Greville had been foolish and extravagant in his early youth,
and having wasted what money he had--not very much after all--had been
shipped off to the colonies by his relations, none of whom, as he was an
orphan and an only child, cared very much what became of him, except one
cousin, who had gone to Liverpool with him and done what he could for
his comfort, till he sailed.  And this the emigrant never forgot.  Tears
and years afterwards he wrote to his kind namesake--they were both
"Jaspers"--to tell of his prosperity; but the letter was never answered,
for by some mistake in the address, it was never received.  And as the
Australian was by this time happily married and the father of several
boys and girls, and full of home interests and business, he never wrote
again.

Life had opened sadly for him, and now, when he was over eighty, it
seemed as if it were to close in the same way.  For after many happy
years, sorrow after sorrow fell upon him.  His wife died, then his
daughters; then again, after some years' interval, his two sons, in the
prime of life, and last of all his twin grandsons, the last of his
children, on whom all his hopes were centred, the sole heirs of his
large fortune!  And then all seemed at an end for the poor old man.

"What do I care for possessions on this side now?" he had often said to
his friend, Mr Maynard.  "It is not a case of `moth and rust' with me--
it is even sadder from this world's point of view, though not really
so," for he was a true Christian.  "I can look forward to the better
country where my dear ones are waiting for me.  Still, I must not be
selfish: I must make some use of my wealth.  I will leave a fair amount
for good charities here, where it has been made, but besides this
Maynard, if you should come across any of my name in England, let me
know.  `Jasper Greville,' remember--not Greville only; of Grevilles
there are plenty, but my branch was always marked by `Jaspers.'  I
fancy, however, they have all died out.  There were never very many of
us."

And so they had--all died out, except "Edith Greville," now Mrs
Fortescue, the grand-daughter and only descendant of the kind cousin.

She--when she heard what I have just related--remembered vaguely the
story of the poor lonely young fellow whom her grandfather had
comforted, and this was an additional assurance that there was no
mistake about the relationship.

Now good Mr Maynard had lost no time in writing to his aged friend at
the antipodes, though very doubtful as to the letter finding him still
alive.  But it had done so--and the reply, just a few days ago received
by Mr Maynard, was the reason of his correspondence with Mr Fortescue,
and the present talk at the "Marvellous Hotel."  For the contents of old
Mr Greville's letter were most important, as it brought an urgent
request that Mr Maynard would do all he possibly could to persuade the
old man's newly-discovered relations to pay him a visit, in his far-away
home, without delay.  And this was the subject of the consultation.

At first, of course, it seemed a very startling idea, and Mrs Fortescue
grew pale with nervousness.

"To leave them all and go so far," she murmured, but Mr Maynard caught
the words.

"Not all," he said gently.  "Our old friend specially begs that if
possible you will bring my little first acquaintance--`Jasper
Greville'--his namesake.  You see I wrote very fully to him, giving
every detail.  I even told him of your boy's illness and delicacy.  It
will really be a curious coincidence if my prescription for him, `a long
sea voyage,' should come to be followed!  And," he went on, hesitating a
little, "as--as this letter explains, expense must be no consideration,"
and though he said no more, his visitors fully understood that the
unexpected and tremendous change in their means and position had been
thoroughly explained to the rich relation at the other side of the
world.

Then another difficulty struck Mrs Fortescue.  She turned to her
husband.

"Your post, Reginald?" she said.  "Will you not lose it if you are away
for six months?"

But it was Mr Maynard who answered her.

"Not necessarily," he said.  "In fact I can assure you that if Fortescue
cares to resume his present work, the place will be open for him.  I
have plenty of influence in that quarter.  But, my dear lady," he
continued, and his tone grew more earnest, "you scarcely realise the
whole position.  If you accede to Mr Greville's wish, and start without
delay, it will certainly mean that he receives you as his heir--or
heiress--and he is very rich.  You are his only living relatives--except
possibly some very distant cousins--there is nothing unnatural about it;
nothing to hurt your reasonable feelings of independence--"

"No, I see that," she said gently.  "It is very, very good of Mr
Greville all the same.  Most old people grow selfish and give themselves
as little trouble as they can."

"That is not his character," replied Mr Maynard; "and remember, there
is the association of long ago kindness received from your grandfather,
which he has never forgotten.  My only anxiety is that there should be
no delay.  Mr Greville is aged and very far from strong.  If you
consent, I will cable to tell him so, this very day.  And the sooner you
start, the better for the boy, I should say."

And I do believe it was this last consideration as much as the prospect
of a return to freedom from anxiety as regarded money, that at last
carried the day with Jasper's "Mumsey."

It was astounding news--was it not?--that Mrs Fortescue carried back to
Spenser Terrace that afternoon, when she left her husband and their kind
new friend to go on to the City, and she herself hurried home.  Aunt
Margaret, of course, forgetting all about herself and the trouble and
responsibility this unexpected move might bring upon her, was strongly
of opinion that the decision was a right one.

"Have no anxiety about the girls and Roley and me," she said at once.
"We shall be all right.  If we can afford to go for two or three weeks
to Seabay, that will keep us all well and strong, I hope, and we may
very possibly be together again by the New Year."

Mr Maynard's instructions to do everything to smooth away difficulties
had been most liberal, and when things _have_ to be done quickly, and
there is no lack of money to do them with, it is astonishing how
speedily they can be managed.  Within ten days of the talk at the Hotel,
the three travellers, pale little Jasper and his parents, were on board
ship and on their way.  The parting was a terrible wrench--it could not
but be so; and though none of the group put their fears into words,
there were sad misgivings in all hearts, when our brave little boy
hugged each dear one in turn, choking back his own tears and sobs, and
promising to get "kite, kite well again," and come back with Daddy and
Mumsey for Christmas.

And before very long, letters from various points on the way began to
drop in--and after a little longer, a cable to Mr Maynard, sent on by
him without a moment's delay, you may be sure, which, being translated
by his "code," told of "safe arrival, all well, Jasper especially."

And the refreshing visit to Seabay was paid, and Roland did go to Winton
at the October term, _without_ dear Aunt Margaret's rings needing to be
sold, and the letters that she and her little nieces sent by every mail,
had happy and cheering news to give of the peaceful and busy home life
in the small house in Spenser Terrace, though, of course, they all ended
with the same chorus--"oh, how we long for you to come home again."

Christmas came and went without bringing this joy.  For just as Jasper
and his parents were on the point of starting on their return, old Mr
Greville, who had revived wonderfully for a time, refreshed and cheered
by the presence and affection of his newly-found relations, died
suddenly--peacefully and painlessly--at the great age of eighty-seven.