Part 4

But afterwards, of course, he saw this was impossible, and he put the matter in the hands of the police, gave them a full description of the lad's personal appearance, and offered a reward for finding him.

To the head master of the school he sent a curt note stating the boy had run away, so he could make no inquiries, and enclosing a cheque for five pounds to make up for what was lost. Of course the cheque was a tacit acknowledgment of his guilt.

A week slipped away without any clue being found. Then a detective brought news.

A boy answering to the written description had gone on board a vessel to San Francisco as cabin boy the very day in question. There seemed no doubt as to his identity. The Captain said it was the best thing that could have happened. It was a rough ship, and the boy would have exceedingly hard work and discipline--it might be the making of him. He sent a cable to reach the captain in America, when the boat arrived, to ask him to see the lad was brought safely back in the same capacity.

And then everything at Misrule resumed its ordinary course. Bunty was safe, though they could not hear of him or see him for four or five months; it was no use being unsettled any longer.

But Poppet made a small discovery one day. She found her little money-box empty under her own bed, with a bit of dirty paper stuck in the slit. "I'll pay you back," it said in Bunty's straggling hand; "you said you'd lend me the thirteen shillings. I have to go, Poppet; it's no good stopping here--no one believes you. Don't forget what you promised. You can have my tortoise for your own. It's in the old bucket under the house. Don't forget to feed it; it likes bits of meat as well as bread. I'd like to say good-bye, but you always cry and make a fuss, and I have to go. You're the only one worth anything anywhere. Oh, and don't forget to change its water often,--well water has more insects in than tap."

"Don't forget what you promised," repeated Nell, as she read the almost undecipherable epistle in her turn. "What did you promise, Poppet?"

"That I would believe him," the little girl said, with a sweet, steadfast look in her eyes.

*CHAPTER VII.*

*A LITTLE MAID-ERRANT.*

"There's nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child."

It was in the midst of morning lessons soon after at the Beltham Grammar School that an odd thing happened.

It was very hot; not a breath of wind came in at the open doors and windows--nothing but the blazing sunlight that lay in hot patches on the floor, and slowly baked blackboards and slates and desks. It was a very long room, this "Great Hall," as they called it; half-a-dozen classes were at work in it, with as many masters; and at the end, on a little, raised platform, sat Mr. Burnham in front of his desk. He was looking through the Euclid exercises of the fourth form, and his brow kept criss-crossing with lines of annoyance at any noise,--the hot, slumbrous air was quite enough to bear, without the occasional down-crashing of a pile of slates or the upsetting of a form.

Then came the loud note of the locust--the whir-r-r, and pen-inimitable sound of its wings, inside the room, not out. Who had dared to bring one of the prohibited creatures into school, after the endless penalties that had been imposed for the offence? Mr. Burnham scored a red line through one of the exercises and stood up in his place, a heavy frown on his face.

And at the same moment a very small shadow fell just inside the entrance door at the far end of the room, and a very small knock sounded there. Nobody said "Come in," though a hundred and fifty pairs of eyes went in the direction with the swiftness natural to gratitude for any break in the monotony of morning school. Then there stepped over the threshold a little, slight girl,--a little girl with a very short, holland frock, a great sun-hat, and no gloves; a little girl with a white, small face, great frightened eyes shining strangely, and soft lips very tightly closed. Up the long, long room she went, both little hands held tightly together in front of her. No one could tell from the way she walked how her poor little knees were shaking and her poor little heart was beating.

For a minute Mr. Burnham's frown did not disappear--not till he noticed how white her face was; he told himself he had never seen a child's face so white in all his life.

"What is it, little girl?" he said, and really thought he made his voice quite gentle and encouraging, though to Poppet it sounded terrible.

"I----" she said--"you----" Something rose in her throat that would not be strangled away, her face grew even whiter, and her lips, white too, twitched a little, but the words would not come.

He took her hand, the little trembling, shut, brown hand, and held it between his own.

"There is nothing to be afraid of, my child; tell me what it is you want"; he drew her closer to the desk, and sat down. He seemed less formidable in that position than towering above her--his eyes looked strangely kind; could it really be the terrible Mr. Burnham she had heard so much about? The hand he held fluttered a minute, then her lips moved again:

"Bunty didn't do it," she said in a whisper.

"Eh? what?" he said, mystified.

"He didn't do it--Bunty didn't do it--oh, indeed."

"But who is Bunty? and who are you, my little maid?" Mr. Burnham said, with a smile that lit up his thoughtful eyes.

"He's my brother," she said in a voice that had gained a little strength.

Then it struck her Bunty was not so called at school.

"His name's John Woolcot," she added, with downcast eyes; "I'm Poppet."

Then Mr. Burnham remembered everything, and his eyes grew stern as he thought of the boy there had been so much trouble with; but they softened as they fell again on the little, white, eager face.

"And his little sister is taking up his cudgels; thankless work, I'm afraid--eh?" he said quizzically.

Poppet was calm now,--the worst part of the ordeal was over, and she had actually gained the dread head master's ear; she must make the most of her time.

"Won't you believe him?" she said; "indeed he didn't do it--oh, indeed."

"What?" he asked,--"break the window--tell a lie--anything? Why, my little child, he owned to it."

"Yes," said Poppet, "he bwoke the glass, I know; and yes, he did tell one story." Her face fell after the last sentence, and a little red crept into her cheek. "But he didn't take the money--oh no, no!--oh, Bunty wouldn't be a thief--oh, not for anything and anything--oh, indeed."

The boys were staring at the little, white-faced girl at the head master's desk, though they could not hear what was being said.

"Would you like to come and talk to me privately?" Mr. Burnham said.

And "Oh-h-h!" was Poppet's only answer; but the gratitude in her eyes was so intense, he guessed a little what the ordeal had been to her.

Away down the long room she went again, only this time her hand was being held in a firm, kindly grasp.

"Oh!" she said again, when near the door a great, slouching fellow with a big head moved to help another boy with a blackboard.

"What?" said Mr. Burnham, when they were outside; he had noticed her intense interest.

"Was that Bull-dog Hawkins--the fellow that told?" she said.

He smiled somewhat; Hawkins was not a favourite of his, and the fitting name sounded odd on the little girl's lips.

"His name is Hawkins," he said; "and yes, he gave the information; but that has nothing to do with it, my child. Now, tell me what it is you have to say."

He had taken her into a little room the walls of which were lined with books; he drew up a chair for himself, and one for her, but she preferred standing against his knee.

Almost she convinced him, so great was the belief in her shining eyes, so utterly unshaken her trust. She told him everything, and he listened patiently and attentively even to the smallest detail, asking a question here and there, but for the most part letting her tell her story in her own way.

When she told of the kiss by the staircase window, she broke down a little; but he slipped his arm round her waist, and she shed her tears on his coat sleeve,--how Bunty would have stared! She showed the dirty scrap of paper, and he read it thoughtfully.

"If only he had never told a lie before," he said, "then perhaps----"

Oh, if only she could have flung back her head and said, "He has never told a lie in his life, sir; never--never!"

Shame at not being able to do so made the dear, curly head droop a little, and two more tears forced their way from under her eyelids and fell sadly down her cheek.

"I'm sure he never will again!" she said, with sorrowful hopefulness. "But, oh, sir, he couldn't be a thief! Oh, how _could_ he?"

"Well, I don't see how he could be altogether bad with such a little sister," he said slowly. "What sort of a boy is he at home? Is he good to you?"

"Oh yes," said Poppet,--"oh yes, indeed!"

And it is a fact that not a single act that disproved this came to the little girl's mind. She remembered nothing but the times he had been good to her.

"Twice I was sent to bed without tea, and he bwought me all his pudding in some newspaper," she said eagerly; "and when I had difeeria, and they wouldn't let him in, he used to climb up the creeper when no one was in the room and smile at me through the window. An' another time I was ill he sat on the mat outside the door all night; Meg found him in the morning asleep with his head on the oilcloth. An' when it was my birthday--I was nine--and he had no money, so he sold his guinea-pigs to one of the fellows--and he liked them better than anything he'd got--and he went and bought me a doll's pwambulator, 'cause Peter smashed mine with filling it with stones. Oh, and lots and lots and lots of things! He was _vewy_ good to me--oh, indeed!"

Such a flushed, little, eager face it was now--such a fluent little tongue that told of Bunty's goodness! The child's beautiful trust, affection, and courage had quite touched the head master's heart.

He took a bunch of keys from his pocket.

"You are a dear, brave, little girl, Poppet," he said. "By the way, haven't you a prettier name than that?"

"Oh, it's Winifred, of course, really," said Poppet.

"Something in a name," he said, half to himself. Then aloud:

"Well, Winifred, then, just because you have believed in your brother and done this for him, I am going to reward you in the way I know will gladden you most."

He unlocked a tin box on the table, and counted out five sovereigns, while the surprise in Poppet's eyes deepened every minute.

"Have you a purse?" he asked.

"No," she said in a very low tone. It made her feel fit to cry to think he should give her money, even such a large, beautiful amount, for doing this.

"Because I want you to give this to Captain Woolcot," he continued, "and tell him I have had reason to doubt whether John was guilty, and until I am perfectly sure it is not fair to the lad to take it."

How Poppet's eyes shone, albeit the tears were not dry! how her lips smiled and quivered! and how the glad, warm colour rushed all over her little, sweet face! Not a word of thanks she said, and he would not have had it; only she clung very tightly to his arm for a minute, and hid her face. When he saw it, he felt he had had more than thanks.

And that was not all he did. He took her back with him to the schoolroom, and walked up to the raised platform, and held her hand all the time.

"Boys," he said, in his clear, far-carrying voice, "I have reason to believe that John Woolcot is not guilty of the theft that you have all heard of. I wish you all to give him the benefit of the doubt, since he is not here to clear himself. For my part, I believe him innocent."

How the boys cheered! It was not that Bunty was a special favourite, though he had his own friends; but they felt it was expected of them, and it was another break in the monotony to be able to do so. Besides, they felt a vague pity and admiration for the little girl standing there, with such a smiling, tear-wet face.

After that Mr. Burnham took her all the way home to Misrule himself. Meg and Nellie went into the drawing-room to see him, and Poppet slipped away. He told them what the child had done, praised her high courage and simple faith. "If," he said, as he took his leave an hour later,--"if all my boys had such sisters as little Poppet is, my school would be a better place, and later, the world."

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*ONE PARTICULAR EVENING.*

"O world, as God has made it! All is beauty, And knowing this is love, and love is duty."

It was Peter who first noticed Meg's face one particular evening. He and Poppet were doing, or making a pretence of doing, preparation for the next day, and Nellie was reading a novel in the only armchair the nursery held.

Meg came in at nine o'clock--nearly an hour past the usual time to send the little ones to bed. "Thust look at Meg'th fathe!" Peter said, and rounded his eyes at her. Of course every one looked instantly.

It was like a blush rose. A delicate, exquisite flush had crept over it, her eyes were soft and dewy, her lips unsteady.

"Peter dear, come to bed; now, Poppet," she said; and even in her voice there was a new note.

Nellie laid down her book and looked at her sister in surprise. She had only just discovered she was beautiful. Hitherto it had seemed to be tacitly allowed that she herself had monopolised the good looks of the family; so to discover this sudden beauty in Meg rather amazed her.

She looked to see if it had anything to do with her dress; no, she had worn it scores of times before. It was a muslin, pale blue, rather old-fashioned in make, for the body fitted plainly with the exception of a slight gathering at the neck. The skirt was very long, and ended in a crossway frill at the hem,--how graceful it made her look! In her waistband she had stuck some cornflowers vividly blue.

And her hair! Nellie devoted a surprisingly long time daily to the erection of an elaborate coiffeur on her own beautiful head; but surely Meg's had a grace of its own, from its very simplicity. It was drawn back loosely that it might wave and curl as it pleased, and then was twisted into a shining knot halfway down her head.

And that exquisite pink in her cheeks!

"Oh, Meg!" Nellie said, half guessing, half shy.

"Dear Peter--oh, Poppet, do come!" Meg entreated. The pink had deepened, her eyes had grown distressful. Both children rose and followed her without a word; they had the native delicacy that every unspoiled child possesses.

But Nellie had lost interest in her book,--what was a fictitious tale of love, when she might hear of one in real life within these very walls?

She went downstairs and into the drawing-room. "Who's in the study, Esther? I can hear voices," she said sharply.

Esther was reading, lying on the sofa, her dark, beautiful head against the yellow, frilled cushions. She turned a leaf before she replied.

"Oh, only father and Alan Courtney," she said, with a studiously matter-of-fact air.

"I _thought_ so!" Nell exclaimed, with a deep breath; then she sat down at the foot of the sofa and looked at Esther.

"Well?" Esther said, feeling the gaze before she reached the end of the next page; then she smiled.

"Is he really asking father?" Nell asked breathlessly.

"I'm not at the keyhole," Esther replied.

"And I wish I was," Nell said with fervour.

Then they looked at each other again, and again Esther smiled. "How pretty she looked to-night!" she said meditatively.

"Very, very," Nell answered eagerly; "why, I couldn't help staring at her."

"I'm very fond of Alan myself; he's a thoroughly good fellow. I think they are excellently suited," the young stepmother said.

Nellie was silent a minute. "I wish he looked older," she said; "thirty is the proper age for a man, _I_ think. And I'd rather he had a long, fair moustache; his eyes are not bad; but I wish he wouldn't rumple his hair up straight when he gets excited."

Esther smiled indulgently at Nellie's idea of a hero.

"As long as he makes her happy," she said, "I'll forgive him for being clean-shaved. Why are you looking at me like that, Nell?"

"I was thinking how very pretty you are yet, Esther," was the girl's answer, spoken thoughtfully. Esther's beauty did strike her on occasion, and to-night, with the dark, bright face and rich, crinkly hair in relief against the cushions, it was especially noticeable.

"Yet," repeated Esther, "I'm not very old, Nell, am I? Twenty-five is not very old." Her eyes looked wistfully at the very young lovely face of her second step-daughter.

"Oh no, dear--oh no, Esther," said Nell, quick to notice the wistfulness; "why, of course it is very young; only--oh, _Essie_!"

"What?" said Esther in surprise.

"How _could_ you marry father?" She crept up closer, and put her shining head down beside the dark one. "Of course I don't want to hurt your feelings, but really he is so very middle-aged and ordinary; were you really in _love_, Essie?"

But Esther was spared the embarrassing answer by the entrance of the Captain and Alan.

You all saw Alan last five years ago, when he used to go on the river boat every morning to his lectures at the university. His face is even more earnest and grave than before; life is a serious business to this young doctor, and the only relaxations he allows himself are football and Meg.

His eyes are grey, deeply set; his patients and Meg think them beautiful. His dark hair has a wave in it, and is on end, for of course he has been somewhat excited.

The Captain does not look unamiable.

Alan has only just begun to practise, certainly; but then he has three hundred a year of his own, and his prospects are spoken of as brilliant. Still, he has the air of having grudgingly conferred a favour, and he goes out to smoke his cigar and think it over.

"All well?" ask Esther's arched eyebrows. And "All is well" Alan answers with a grave, pleasant smile.

"Dear boy, I _am_ so glad," she says. There is a moisture in her dark eyes as she gives him her hand, for Meg is very dear to her.

He looks at her in silence for a minute; then he bends his tall, boyish-looking head suddenly, and kisses the hand he holds.

"I am glad too," Nellie whispers, with something like a sob in her throat; she too holds out her hand.

"Dear little Nell!" he says; and such a happy light is in the eyes that look down at her that she quite forgives his lack of good looks. "Dear little Nell!"

He does not kiss _her_ hand--it is too little and childish, he considers; but he stoops and takes a first brotherly kiss from the soft cheek nearest to him, and though she blushes a little, she is impressed with the dignity that attaches to a future brother-in-law.

Then he goes. Meg has refused to be visible again to-night to him, and Nellie flies up the staircase.

"_Dear_ Meg," she pleads at the door--it is locked, and doesn't open for a minute.

But the tone turns the key, and the sisters are in each other's arms.

Just the room you might expect Meg to have. It is fresh, simple, and daintily pretty. The floor is covered with white China matting; the bed hangings have loose pink roses on a white ground; the pillows have hem-stitched frills. There is a bookcase on one wall, in which the poets preponderate; the dressing-table is strewn with the pretty odds and ends girls delight in; there is a writing-table that looks as if it is used often; and in the window stands a deep wicker chair with rose-pink cushions double frilled.

On the walls there are some water-colours of Meg's own, pretty in colouring, but shaky as to perspective. Two lines she has illuminated herself,--

"Lord, help us this and every day To live more nearly as we pray."

The gold letters are a little uneven, perhaps; but she wears them in her heart besides, so it does not matter. There is an engraving in an oak and gold frame--"Songs of Love"; Meg loves the exquisite face of the singer, and the back of the sweet little child. There is a long photo-frame with a balcony rail: here is Essie all dimpled with her sauciest smile; Poppet and Peter's heads close together like two little bright-eyed birds; Nell, a little self-conscious with the camera so close; Esther looking absurdly girlish; Pip in his cap and gown when they were delightfully new. Bunty always refused to put on an engaging smile and submit himself to the photographer, so he is not represented.

And over the mantelpiece, in an ivory frame, is an old, fading likeness of a little thin girl with a bright face and mischievous eyes, and rough, curly hair--Judy at ten.

It had taken all the time you have been looking at the room for the girls to kiss each other and say little half-laughing, half-crying words. Then Nellie forced Meg into the wicker chair, and knelt down herself, with her arms round her sister's waist.

"You darling," she said. "Oh, Meg, how glad I am! Dear, dear Meg, I do hope you'll be happy--impossibly happy."

It was the first connected sentence either of them had spoken.

"I couldn't be happier," was Meg's whisper.

"But always, always, dear--even when your hair is white, and there are wrinkles here and here and here." She touched the smooth cheeks and brow with tender fingers.

There was a little silence fraught with love, the two bright heads leaning together; then Meg spoke, shyly, hesitatingly:

"Alan--Nell dear--you do--like him?"

"Oh, he's well enough--oh yes, I'm very fond of Alan," said Nell. "Of course I don't consider him half good enough, though, for you."

"Oh, Nellie!" Meg looked quite distressed. "Why, it is the other way, of course. He is so clever--oh! you don't know how clever; and I am such a stupid thing."

"Very stupid," assented Nellie; but her smile differed.

"And he is always thinking of plans to do good to the lower classes. Nell, you cannot think how miserable some of them are; though they don't half realise it, they get so dulled and weary. Oh, Nellie dear, I _do_ think he is the very best man in the world." The young, sweet face was half hidden behind the deep cushion frill.

"Well, you are the very best woman," Nell said very tenderly, and meant it indeed.

Pretty giddy little butterfly, that she was just now, she often paused in her flights to wish she could grow just as sweet and good and true and unselfish as Meg without any trouble.

"The _very_ best woman," she repeated; but Meg's soft hand closed her lips and stayed there.

"If you _knew_ how I'm always failing," she said, with a deep sigh.

"But the trying is everything," Nell said.

Then there were more tender words and wishes, and Nellie went to bed, stealing on tip-toe down the passage, for time had flown on noiseless wings and the household was asleep. And Meg took down the ivory frame, and put her lips to the laughing child-face.

"Oh, Judy," she said, "I wish you knew. Dear little Judy, I _wonder_ if you know?"

*CHAPTER IX.*

*THAT MISCHIEVOUS CUPID.*

"For boys say, Love me or I die."

University examinations are not things to be postponed with polite little notes like inconvenient balls or picnics. And, given the early days of December, and a young man who steadfastly refused to acknowledge this fact, what use was it even to trouble to scan the lists?

Of course Philip was plucked.

In October he had brought down his father's wrath upon him by failing to get through in a class examination; and any one who had had experience of the Captain's would have thought that would have been quite enough to make him take a good place at the end of his second year.

But, as I said, his name was conspicuous by its absence.