Part 5

"Please, miss, 'tisn't that a bit," said the boy, his big grey eyes upraised to hers pleadingly; for he was devoted to Miss Monica. "I ain't a mite afraid of 'im, but Mr. Richards 'e said, said 'e: 'Now, Tom, you leave that there pony alone,' says 'e. 'If 'e don't bite, if 'e gits a chance, my name ain't Richards. You may depend,' says 'e, ''e weren't called "Seize-'er" for nothin'.'"

"Nonsense!" said Monica, scornfully, although she was tickled with the man's unconscious pun. "You wouldn't bite me, would you, old boy?" she added to the little chestnut, who eyed her rather maliciously as she entered the stall, and put out her hand to rub his soft brown nose.

"Oh, don't, miss, please don't!" cried the little stable-boy, as he tried to snatch her hand away. But even as he spoke the pony made a grab at the girlish fingers, and Monica realised too late that she would have been wiser to pay attention to the boy's warning, for her hand ached terribly, and there were ugly tooth marks on the palm and one or two fingers.

"You little wretch! You horrid little vixen!" she cried, in pain and anger, as she bound her hand, fortunately the left one, in her handkerchief, and tried to still the throbbing.

The pony, quiet enough now, appeared to take no notice of the epithets she poured out upon him, and Tom stood helplessly by, his very soul in his liquid grey eyes, wishing with all his heart, poor little chap, that it had happened to him instead of to his adored young lady.

"Please, miss," he suggested timidly, "'adn't you better go indoors, and get something to do your 'and good. Shall I run round to the kitchen and tell 'em?"

Monica blessed the warm-hearted little lad for his evident desire to make matters a little easier for her indoors, and gladly assented to his plan.

She was thankful when she reached the house that she was saved the effort of telling what had happened, for she felt a curious sensation all over her, and was seized with a desire to fall into the first chair she came to. Surely she was not going to faint? Monica Beauchamp had never been known to have nerves before!

"Mercy on us, Miss Monica, you do look bad!" cried the kindly old cook, as she called to one of the maids for a glass of water, and sent another for the vinegar bottle. "La, what a nasty grip the little beast give you!" she added, as the handkerchief fell off, and revealed the extent of the damage. "Get a bowl of warm water, Mary Ann, quick!" And in another minute she was gently bathing the injured hand in the water, to which she had added a little Condy's fluid.

"Is that better, miss?" she asked, with kindly sympathy, glad to notice that the colour was returning to Monica's cheeks. She was, perhaps, the only one of all the servants who had any affection for the girl whose coming had upset the even tenor of the quiet household, and whose pranks gave them so much extra trouble.

"Oh! yes, thanks, cook, it doesn't ache quite so horribly now," she said, with a sigh of relief, as the woman bound the hand up in some soft old linen, and Monica prepared to leave the kitchen regions. But when she let her hand fall for a moment, a stifled groan escaped her lips, and she raised it quickly.

"Let me make a sling of this old scarf, Miss Monica," said cook, suiting the action to the word, and hastily improvising a sling from a black and white check tie, which she produced from one of the huge dresser drawers. "It's a mercy the skin ain't broke."

"Thanks," was all Monica could manage to say, for it required all her self-control to keep her lips firmly clenched, the aching was so intense.

"Perhaps Barnes could find some soothin' stuff to put on it, miss," she called after the girl, as she slowly ascended the kitchen stairs.

Monica managed to reach the schoolroom door, where she came face to face with Barnes, who had been in search of her; and she had to tell the maid what had befallen her.

"Dear, dear, Miss Monica," said Barnes, "'tis nothing but a chapter of accidents this morning; the missis so poorly, too. But there, 'tis one consolation the doctor will be here in a few minutes to see her (for she told me I'd better send for him), and he'll soon put your hand to rights."

She spoke more cheerfully than she felt, for Monica looked very unlike her usual self, and she feared she was going to be ill. "Just you have a bit of rest in this easy chair, miss," she said, pushing forward a cosy basket chair, and Monica sank among the cushions with relief. "Why, there's the doctor's gig, I do declare," added the maid, with satisfaction, as wheels sounded on the carriage drive.

The fatherly old doctor, who knew Monica very well, although she had seldom required any of his physic, paid her a visit after he had attended to her grandmother. He examined the bite carefully, and commiserated with her on the unfortunate mishap, but said it was not at all a serious matter. He promised to send some lotion, and told her to keep her hand in a sling, and he hoped in a day or two there would be little more than bruises left.

"But you mustn't go and put your hand into the pony's mouth again, my dear child," said he with a smile, "or you might not get off so easily again. I can't quite understand how it happened yet."

"Oh! it was all my own fault," admitted Monica, frankly. "I was warned that the pony might bite, but, of course, I didn't think he would! In fact, I ought not to have gone into the stables at all." And she looked up saucily into the kind old face bending over her. But the expression in the keen eyes which looked searchingly at her made her lower her own, while something akin to shame filled her heart.

"I suspect the colonel would say that obedience was one of the first duties of a recruit," he said, slowly; "at any rate, it is one of the hardest lessons that a soldier of the King of kings has to learn. My lassie," he added, tenderly, but solemnly, as he smoothed her ruffled hair with a fatherly touch, "how much longer are you going on fighting against Him? Why don't you surrender arms, and begin to fight for Him, and with Him? You see, I know that I am talking to a soldier's daughter. Won't you think about what I have said?" And he took up his hat and gloves, preparatory to departing.

Monica, remembering her father's last letter, thought how strange it was that the old doctor should speak in the same strain, but she was too shy to mention it, and Dr. Marley feeling that, at any rate, the seed had been sown in the rebellious young heart, forbore to say more. But as he drove on to his next patient he prayed that it might take root; for the old doctor had known Colonel Beauchamp since he was a little lad, and he took a warm interest in his only child.

Monica passed a bad five minutes in her grandmother's room after the doctor had gone, but the influence of his words remained with her, and she refrained from being saucy or off-hand. Indeed, Mrs. Beauchamp began to fear that the accident had made her really ill, so wonderfully subdued and penitent was she.

Considering that she would have to bear the pain and inconvenience of her injured hand for some little time, the old lady excused Monica from further punishment, on condition that she did not disobey again. Fully intending at the moment to keep her promise, Monica said she would remember her grandmother's wishes in future, and the latter dismissed her, feeling more hopeful about her grandchild than she had done for a long time.

As she did not feel up to any great exertion, Monica spent the greater part of the afternoon and evening in writing a long letter to her father, telling him, in detail, all about her new school, and, above all, about her new-found friend. She also described the happenings of that unfortunate morning, taking care not to spare herself in the least; but she felt too shy to say much in reply to his letter, the only remark she made being: "I have been thinking about what you wrote, dad dear, and I mean to try and learn the hard lesson, but I haven't found a teacher yet." And when the father read the girlish, blotted, and rather badly spelt letter, some weeks later, in far off Simla, the tears rose to his eyes, while he bowed his head and prayed that God would send some one to guide his little daughter into the only safe path.

While Monica was engaged in writing her letter, Amethyst Drury was busy playing hostess to the two Franklyns. It was such a lovely sunny afternoon that Mrs. Drury had given permission for the trio to have tea in the little rustic summer-house overlooking the pretty, but by no means large, lawn.

"Isn't it fun having tea out here?" remarked Amethyst, as the three girls sat lazily in the garden chairs, having done ample justice to the cocoanut cake and raspberry jam sandwiches, which had been provided for the feast by kind Mrs. Drury.

"Awfully nice," admitted Olive, "but I must say I wish Monica could have been here too."

"Oh! Ollie," said Elsa, hastily, with an apologetic glance at Amethyst, for she feared she would think her sister rude.

Amethyst's eyes flashed, and she burst out indignantly: "I can't bear that girl! She's going to spoil everything, and we had such lovely times together before she came." And her lips trembled, and in a minute more there would have been an April shower. But Elsa the peacemaker interposed.

Putting her arm lovingly round the little hostess, she said, soothingly: "Olive didn't mean anything unkind, dear, I am sure. And I don't think Monica will make much difference, because, you see, she lives so far away. And besides, if Olive and Monica become great friends, that leaves me out in the cold; and I want you, Thistle."

"Of course," added Olive. "You two are cut out for each other, and I always feel like a fish out of water amongst you. But let's have a game now, shall we?"

And in the intricacies of playing croquet-golf, as best they could, all against all, the little unpleasantness blew over.

*CHAPTER VII.*

*"THIS IS MONICA BEAUCHAMP, MOTHER."*

But Amethyst remembered it again, later on, as she was preparing to get into her little white bed, after the Saturday night bathing operations were over. Mrs. Drury was with her, brushing out the soft fair hair, and plaiting it up into a smooth pigtail.

"Mumsie," she said suddenly, twisting herself round, so that the bow Mrs. Drury was tying nearly slipped out of her hand, and she bade the child keep still a moment longer.

"Now, what is it, girlie?"

"Oh, mumsie, I do _wish_ Monica Beauchamp had never been born!" Amethyst brought out the words with such vehemence, that for the moment her mother was too astonished to reply.

"I do, mumsie," repeated the child vehemently.

"Amethyst, I am ashamed of you," said her mother sternly. "I cannot understand what you mean. I don't think you quite know what you are saying."

"I do mean it, really, mumsie, but I daresay it's wicked of me. Only I know she's going to spoil everything, and Olive doesn't care a bit about me now; all she wants is Monica." And Amethyst repeated what Olive had said that afternoon. But if she expected her mother to take her part, she was disappointed.

"I am afraid my girlie is jealous of this new rival," she said, gently, as she drew the little night-gowned figure on to her knee. "You must not expect to be first always, Amethyst. You have had very happy times with the Franklyns, and I have been very pleased for them to make up a little of what you miss by having no sisters. But Olive, especially, seems older than you, and I do not at all wonder at her making this new friend, and I only hope that they will help each other to be good girls. And, surely, Amethyst, if you have Elsa left, you ought to be content. I do not know a nicer, dearer girl than Elsa, anywhere. I am really very glad that it is she who is left to you. It might be very sad if _she_ forsook you for some one else, but I don't think Elsa Franklyn would do that."

"No, I'm sure she wouldn't, mumsie," cried the warm-hearted little girl; "she is a dear old darling, and, as you say, so long as I have her it doesn't matter so much about Olive. All the same, I wish that Monica had never come to our school."

"I am afraid you have already forgotten the passage you have been learning this evening, for your Sunday class to-morrow," said her mother, somewhat sadly.

And Amethyst hung her head in confusion, for the verses she had been saying over and over, not an hour before, were those of that beautiful chapter in the first epistle to the Corinthians, where the Apostle says: "Without charity, I am nothing."

"I forgot, mumsie," she murmured.

"Yes, dear; alas! we all forget so soon. Shall we kneel down together now, darling, and ask our loving Heavenly Father to root up this little weed of jealousy, and sow instead the seed of unselfish love; not only for those we have a natural affection for, but love even for our enemy if we had one."

Amethyst Drury often looked back to that Saturday night, and her mother's prayer, in the days and weeks that followed; and the memory of it helped her to overcome her feeling of aversion towards the girl who had, to a large extent, usurped her place.

Monica's hand was sufficiently better by the following Monday to allow of her going to school; but the sling which the doctor insisted upon her using excited so many remarks that she wished she had not gone. She put off the girls, as long as she could, but at last, in sheer desperation, she told them exactly what had happened.

Her explanation was received in varied ways. One or two of the well-behaved girls looked askance at such insubordination, and lost interest in the result of pure disobedience; but several of the more reckless-minded, Olive among the number, exclaimed at the severity of old Mrs. Beauchamp in forbidding her to go in the stable-yard.

"Catch me keeping that rule," cried one.

"Or me either," said another. "Why, I should just like to see my father trying to stop me visiting the dog-kennels, and petting our old grey pony."

"I suppose my grandmother has a perfect right to do as she likes in her own house?" said Monica haughtily, and the girls muttered, "Oh, yes, of course," in confusion, scarcely knowing what to make of this very peculiar girl.

The days passed swiftly on, without much incident to mark them, until another Saturday drew near, and Monica, happy in her grandmother's permission to be as friendly as occasion necessitated with the Franklyns, realised that on that afternoon she was going to have her first peep into the home life of a big houseful of young people.

A nicely worded note from Olive's mother asking Mrs. Beauchamp to allow her granddaughter to spend from three to seven with her girls had been graciously answered in the affirmative by the old lady, who, though she thought it right to be very stern with Monica, was really anxious for the girl to mix with other young people. So she arranged to drive in the direction of Osmington that afternoon, and drop Monica at the Franklyns' door.

Monica, who was tremendously excited at what was really a great event in her life, tried her utmost to pay attention to the old lady's advice, as they bowled along in the handsome victoria.

"Very well, grandmother, I will be sure to remember," she replied dutifully, to some injunction of Mrs. Beauchamp's, and she looked so good and well-behaved that the old lady's heart quite warmed towards this troublesome, but wonderfully taking, granddaughter of hers.

For Monica looked extremely well in a new coat and skirt of the darkest shade of blue, which, being unfastened, showed a pretty delaine blouse, with a suggestion of pink among its colourings; while the French sailor hat, simply trimmed with a huge rosette of dark blue, exactly suited her bright young face. It was very seldom that the girl troubled about her personal appearance: her usual cry being that "it was too much fag" to make herself look nice, but on this occasion she had been quite ready to fall in with her grandmother's wish that she should dress herself suitably.

"Here we are, grandmamma," said Monica, as the victoria pulled up at the iron gates over which the regulation doctor's lamp was swinging, and in a moment more she was on the pavement.

"Now, Monica, remember, you are on no account to be late in getting ready to come home. Richards will be here punctually at seven, and you must be sure not to keep the pony standing."

"Very well, grandmother." Monica could see a well-known face at one of the windows, so she was eager to be off, and promised readily. Her hand was on the iron gate, when her grandmother's voice recalled her.

"Oh! and, Monica----"

Very reluctantly she turned back, and the face under the upturned hat-brim did not look quite so fascinating, with the expression of vexation it had assumed at the delay.

"Please to remember that you are my granddaughter, and behave yourself as such."

Fortunately, the horses grew restive and made a jerk forward, before Monica's pettish exclamation, "I never get a chance to forget it!" reached Mrs. Beauchamp's ears, or that lady would have had her return drive disturbed by the thought of her grandchild's ingratitude.

The little cloud soon disappeared from Monica's brow, and her face was all smiles again as she received a boisterous welcome from her "chum."

"It is jolly to have you, Monica!"

"It's ever so much more jolly to come, then!"

And the two girls laughed gaily, in their buoyancy of spirit.

"Come up and take your things off first, and then you shall investigate our 'den' and all its treasures," suggested Olive, as the two girls ascended the staircase, arm-in-arm. As they went up, Olive pointed out the various rooms, lowering her voice as they passed her mother's closed door.

"Mother wants to see you ever so much, Monica, but she always has to rest in the afternoon, so I am to take you to her room later on. This is our room--Elsa's and mine," she continued, as they crossed the wide landing, and entered a half-open door. "It's not very big, so we keep most of our property upstairs."

If Monica thought she had never been in such a small, poorly furnished room before, she made no outward sign. Two small beds, a simple wash-stand, and chest of drawers (which also did duty as toilet table), a couple of chairs, and an impromptu wardrobe made by a shelf and some cretonne curtains, was all the furniture the room contained. How vastly different was it from the elegant apartment she called her own at Carson Rise!

Her hat and coat were off in a moment, and then the two friends climbed another flight of stairs, and the "den" was reached.

"Now, isn't it a dear old place?" cried Olive, enthusiastically, as she showed her friend into every nook and corner of the queer L-shaped room, and Monica warmly agreed with her.

"What do you use it for, and who does it belong to?"

"Oh! it really used to be shared by the whole family, and when the boys lived at home, and went to Osmington College, we had gay old times up here, between us. But now they are away, and as Lois has so much to do about the house, and Kath looks after mother, it pretty well belongs to Elsa and me."

"Oh! by the way, where is Elsa?" asked the visitor, suddenly remembering her existence.

"She took the two little ones out for a walk. Funny of her not to want to be in when you were coming, wasn't it?"

And Olive flung her arm round her friend, and hugged her impetuously.

It never so much as entered Olive's head that her twin sister had unselfishly absented herself on purpose, so that she might have the satisfaction and pleasure of having her friend all to herself for a little while. It had not been exactly easy for Elsa, either, to suggest that she should take the little ones with her, and go on an errand that needed to be done, for she, too, was very much attracted by the winsomeness of this new schoolfellow, although Monica's many faults repelled her at times; in fact, a year before, Elsa Franklyn would not have troubled a bit about it, she would have sought to please herself first, whatever the circumstances might be. But now, she was wont to ask herself on occasions like these: "What would Jesus do if He were in my place just now?" and the answer coming back, very distinctly, she sought by His help to act as she felt convinced He would.

Olive, self-seeking, self-loving Olive, often wondered at various little sacrifices, quietly and unostentatiously made, but accepted them without demur, stifling her conscience, which accused her very plainly, by persuading herself that Elsa was such a "mouse" she really didn't care about things a bit, so it was no sacrifice to her.

The two girls perched themselves on the high window seat whence they could see the river gliding swiftly by the bottom of the large, old-fashioned garden, and indulged in a long, long "confab," as Olive termed it, after the newly painted things (which had caused such disaster to Olive's dress) had been admired among many other things.

At length, when each had confided to the other all that was in her heart, a sound of youthful voices was heard in the hall below, and in a few moments more, Elsa appeared on the scene.

"Where are Joan and Pat?" said Olive, as Monica and Elsa greeted each other with the school-girl's typical "How d'you do?"

"They went to Nanny."

"Because Monica wants to see Paddy. Go and fetch him up, Elsa, there's a good girl."

"Mayn't Joan come, too?" pleaded Elsa; "she wants to, ever so much."

"Oh, yes!" said Olive, with good-humoured benignity; "let her come if she likes. But Monica doesn't care for small girls."

"I really don't know anything about children," said Monica, as Elsa went off at Olive's request.

"Well, I think, myself, that they are a perfect nuisance," admitted her friend; "they are always in the way, or getting into mischief, but Paddy is such a jolly little chap, everybody takes a fancy to him."

And as soon as Monica saw him, she added yet another to the number of those whom Master Pat, the Pickle, had slain with the sword of his fascinations. He came peeping in the door, demurely twisting his clean holland overall in restless little fingers, as he looked shyly out of his lovely blue eyes at the tall girl who had not the least idea of what to say to "small fry."

"Come here, little man," she ventured somewhat stiffly at length, holding out a hand to him.

"Don't fink I will, big girl," was the unexpected reply, which sent them off into roars of laughter. Paddy, perceiving he had said something comical, laughed gleefully, and added, drolly: "Aren't I a pickle?" which, of course, amused them all the more.

The laugh set them all at their ease, and a happy half-hour was spent over one thing and another; Joan sitting quietly looking on, while her little brother received most of the attention. Monica had to be told of some of Paddy's escapades--how once he had got hold of the garden hose, and hiding behind some shrubs, had squirted the water all over Nanny, who was searching everywhere for him. And how another time father had come in one evening to find a stream of water running out at the front door, and they found the mischievous little boy had turned the bathroom tap on, and left it, and the bath overflowing; the water, of course, was running like a river down the stairs and through the hall!

"Paddy _was_ whipped that night," interpolated Joan solemnly, and Pat added innocently, "Yes, _naughty_ Paddy; but you can't 'spect no better of a 'pickle.'"