CHAPTER XVI.

TRYING TO MAKE BOTH ENDS MEET.

Things go on quietly enough for some time, but as each day comes round it is pretty sure to bring with it some little trial and vexation; trifling in itself perhaps, but none the less wearying to the three girls, who with hopeful hearts are striving laboriously to cut and contrive in order to get the utmost out of every halfpenny.

Honor has shown from the first an almost dogged determination to have nothing brought into the house that cannot be paid for at once.

"We know to a farthing what our income is," she says quietly and firmly; "and what we cannot afford to have we must learn to do without."

Nevertheless it goes to the girl's heart when, having had to draw perhaps from the little sum set aside for the week's living for some other incidental expense, she has to say, "No meat to-day, girls and boys; we must make our dinners from potatoes and bread and butter."

"And very good fare too," some will say perhaps; but for girls and boys who have been brought up in the lap of luxury, and who in their sudden transition from affluence to well-nigh poverty have retained their usual healthy appetites, it is a little trying it must surely be allowed. To Doris and Honor the fact of having to deny themselves meat, and sometimes other things which are almost necessaries, is no great trial so long as they can somehow or other make both ends meet; but it does pain them to see that Molly's and Dick's faces are no longer so round and plump as formerly, and that little Daisy pushes away her plate of untempting food from before her sometimes, plaintively saying she is "not hungry to-day." The novelty of the situation having worn off also to a great extent, the spirits of Doris and Molly especially flag visibly at times; and while Doris sighs over her work with a generally listless air, Molly grows despondent, and even a little cross, as she goes about her daily duties. Poor Honor makes brave and determined efforts to preserve both her cheerfulness and her temper for the sake of all, but there are two little upright lines between her straight brows which tell of constant care and anxious thought; and many a quiet tear is shed when, tired in body and anxious in mind, the girl finds herself alone in her room with no one to witness her giving way to her overwrought feelings.

Still, there are gleams of brightness in the new life, and many an act of kindness is shown to the girls by the neighbouring families; on all of whom the Merivales have been most thoroughly impressed by the brothers Talboys. The first to call are the clergyman and his wife, and they prove to be affable, kindly-disposed people. Then most of the families round about call on Mrs. Merivale also, and do their best to cheer the girls with accounts of what goes on during the summer months, saying kindly that they hope they will look forward to plenty of games of tennis with their own daughters.

But although every one promises to remember their wishes to obtain teaching, and to do his or her best in the matter, no pupils come for Molly; and although Honor takes up her painting again with renewed ardour, nobody seems to require lessons in that either.

The brothers Talboys hold many a serious conversation over the trials and difficulties of their young friends, as they call them; but beyond sending them some game from time to time, or something from their own poultry-yard, dairy, or garden, they do not see their way to helping them much without running the risk of hurting their feelings.

One morning the old gentlemen are leaning over a gate looking admiringly at their sleek Alderneys grazing in the distance, when suddenly down the lane behind them come Daisy and Bobby hand in hand. During the short time that the family has been settled at the Rookery, these two children, and especially Daisy, have taken a firm hold on the warm hearts of the two old brothers. Their blind devotion to the latter would bid fair, indeed, to turn the head of any less good and demure little maiden than Daisy, for she can hardly express a wish in their hearing which is not gratified; and when the children go to tea at the Rosery--which event occurs once a week, if not oftener--the recklessness of their two frolicsome hosts in the matter of cakes, jam, cream, &c., defies description.

The brothers no sooner now see the children approaching than they pounce upon them instantly, and after duly inquiring after every one at home, Mr. Ned unfastens the gate, and taking Daisy by the hand leads her away into the field.

"I know you would like to come and speak to White-star," he says; "they are both going to be milked in a few minutes, and if you like you shall stay and see them, and have a drink of nice new milk too. What are we to do for a tumbler though, eh?"

"I'll run and fetch one, sir," pipes up little Bobby, who is perfectly at home in all the arrangements of the Rosery, both in and out of the house, "or shall I run to the dairy and ask Susan to bring something?"

"Yes, yes, my boy, that would be better, for you might fall down and cut yourself. Here, wait a minute, Master Bob, a piece of cake would not come amiss with the milk, I take it, eh? Go and ask Mrs. Edwards to put some cake, several large slices, into a little basket for you; and then we will all have lunch out here together."

"And give White-star some," cries Daisy excitedly.

"Oh, certainly, give White-star some," repeats Mr. Ned approvingly; "it would be a poor return after giving us her milk not to offer her any refreshment herself. I am not certain, however, that she would not prefer some nice fresh grass even to plum-cake if you were to pluck it and offer it to her. Ah! I thought so!" as the little girl goes fearlessly up to the placid-looking animal, her hands full of sweet-smelling grass. White-star stoops her head, gravely inspecting Daisy at first, then she puts her soft velvety nose into the child's hands and gently gathers up the contents into her mouth.

"It seems to me," says Mr. Ben, folding his hands over his stick and looking at the gentle pair--"it seems to me that White-star has a great deal to say to this little maid. What say you, Brother Ned? Now I shouldn't be the least surprised if she is thinking how much she would like you to have a lot of her good milk every day to fatten up your cheeks a little, don't you think so, Brother Ned?"

"I was thinking the very same thing myself," answers Mr. Ned, nodding approval of his brother's idea. "Oh! here comes Susan with the pail and the glasses, and here is Master Bob also heavily laden with the cake and the milking-stool. Now then, the first drink for the lady of course."

"And so it is your birthday to-morrow," suddenly remarks Mr. Ned after a longish pause, during which undivided attention is given to the milk and cake.

"Yes," says Daisy gravely nodding; "who told you?"

"Master Bob there. And he told me, moreover, what present he is going to give you, and I can assure you it will be--well, to use the young gentleman's own words--a regular stunner."

"Oh!" cries Daisy, "_do_ tell me, Mr. Talboys."

"Oh, I couldn't think of such a thing. And why, bless my soul, it is getting quite late, Brother Ben; if we are to see these little folks home I think we had better be starting."

And so after a time the quartette appears at the Rookery, and the children are handed over to Honor, who has seen them coming through the gate. It is an everyday occurrence now this finding of the children with the two Mr. Talboys. If they are missing for any length of time, someone says, "Oh, they are up at the Rosery, of course;" and after a time sure enough they arrive either in charge of Priscilla, the parlour-maid, or with the old gentlemen themselves.