CHAPTER XVIII.

THREATENING CLOUDS.

But Betty and Tony behaved extremely well. They escaped the measles, and all risk of infection was over long before the end of term came—and even a first term at school must come to an end some time.

Kitty at last had but seven more slips to tear off and seven more dates to strike through, and for sheer pleasure she left them untouched. Time did not need helping along now.

Then came the last day, when the boxes stood packed and strapped and labelled, and a general air of holidays and freedom from rules pervaded the whole house. Rhoda and Cicely Collins were leaving very early. Rhoda wanted to go by the earliest train because the fares were slightly lower. Rhoda was of a saving disposition. It always gave her the greatest pleasure to be able to economize in any way, and her stores of twine and paper, old corks, scraps of writing-paper, old pens, and other things, afforded food for endless jokes amongst the rest of the girls. Cicely, on the other hand, was the exact opposite of her sister; but being the younger, and less masterful, she gave in to Rhoda, and on the day they were to go home she rose, at Rhoda's command, from her bed at six o'clock, very unwillingly though, for the saving of threepence on her journey was nothing to Cicely in comparison to the discomfort of rising early.

Hope Carey had gone home some weeks before, having fretted herself ill with anxiety about her mother. Kitty and Pamela were to wait until the eleven o'clock train, for Dan, who broke up on the same day, could join them then at their station, and they could all travel down together. It was not nearly eleven when they reached the station; but how could they stay quietly in the dull, deserted house waiting for the hours to go by? Miss Hammond saw that it was too much to expect of them, so took them down very early; for a railway station, with its bustle and life, is a capital place for making time pass.

"It all seems too lovely to be real," sighed Kitty happily. "To be going home, to be meeting Dan, to be travelling by ourselves, and to have no lessons for more than three weeks! It seems too much happiness all at once, and I am afraid I shall wake up presently and find it a dream, as I so often have. I understand now what Dan meant by saying it was almost worth going away to have the going home. I do think, though," with sudden alarm, "that Dan must have missed his train. I am sure it must be nearly afternoon."

"It is five minutes past eleven," laughed Miss Hammond, "and there is his train now coming in, and there—if I don't mistake—is Dan."

But Kitty had seen him first, and was flying down the platform to meet him. Dan, recognizing the flying figure, stood and warded her off with the umbrella and bag he had in his hands. "Now, if you kiss me here," he cried, "I shall call for help, I really shall; it is taking a mean advantage, and I am not going to stand it. I wouldn't mind if you were by yourself, but the others would be imitating you!"

Kitty laughed. "I forgot you were still a little boy," she said teasingly. "I know little boys do mind. When they are real men they don't. Come along, Dan, and speak to Miss Hammond and Pamela," and Dan followed quite sedately to make his best bow to Kitty's friends.

"You must be very thankful the holidays are come," he said solemnly to
Miss Hammond. "I know, of course, how wearing Kitty is."

"I expect some of your masters feel they have cause for gratitude to-day too," laughed Miss Hammond. "Now we must hurry if we want to find nice seats. I see your train is in."

Pamela and Dan looked at each other and smiled somewhat embarrassedly; but Dan, who had been rather annoyed at first by Kitty's asking to bring home a friend with her, let his heart melt a little towards her, for he somehow felt that things were not going to be as bad as he had feared; and when they had found an empty compartment, and seemed likely to have it to themselves all the way, he graciously thawed still more, and his spirits rose to their usual height.

Alas, though, for plans. The train was on the point of starting, the whistle had gone, and the guard was just about to signal to the engine-driver, when there was a shout and a rush, and with a "Here you are, ma'am!" a porter laid hold of the handle of their door, flung it open, almost pushed two ladies in, threw in some bags and parcels after them, and banged the door to again. Off started the engine with a jerk which threw the ladies on to the seat opposite Kitty, who, with dismayed face and sinking spirits, had already recognized them as Lady Kitson and Lettice.

"She will be with us all the time, and everything is spoilt," she groaned inwardly. She was intensely disappointed. "Strangers would not have been so bad, or any one but those particular two."

Pamela was sitting in the corner opposite her, and Dan was in the corner at the other end of her seat. Lady Kitson and Lettice were at first too cross and too much shaken to notice any one; but presently, having recovered and arranged their packages, and settled down in their seats, they glanced about the compartment, and, with a look of not very pleased surprise, recognized their companions.

"Oh, how do you do, Dan?" said Lady Kitson, and smiled quite affably on him, but to Kitty she vouchsafed only the merest acknowledgment.

Lettice blushed hotly when she saw Kitty, and gave her one of her broad, meaning smiles.

"How do you do?" said Kitty very stiffly, and with no shadow of a smile.

"How is your poor little cousin, Dan?" said Lady Kitson presently.
"I hope she is growing strong again after her two serious illnesses?"

"Yes, thank you," said Dan. "She has gone away for change of air."

"Oh, indeed. I am glad she is able to. It was so alarming her being so ill. Oh, I heard about your shocking behaviour in leaving her behind to walk home by herself, on such a night too, and in such a wild spot."

"I am afraid you haven't heard the right story, Lady Kitson," said Dan gravely, but with a flash of his eye.

Lady Kitson smiled a most aggravating little smile. "Oh, I think so," she said meaningly. Then, "You are not all going away with Anna, I hope," she remarked severely. "I am sure the poor child must require perfect peace and great care."

"No, Aunt Pike has gone with her. We are going home, and Kitty's friend is coming to stay with us," and Dan looked towards Pamela. "May I introduce Miss Pamela Peters—Lady Kitson, Miss Kitson," said Dan very formally, and growing very red.

Pamela smiled and bowed very prettily to Lady Kitson. Lady Kitson stared at Pamela, but gave her only the vaguest of acknowledgments. Lettice nodded as though her neck were loose at the joint.

"You don't mean to say that while Mrs. Pike is away your poor father is going to have you all on his hands, and a stranger as well? Poor Dr. Trenire. I really think it is too much for him, he looks so ill and worn already. He really needs a holiday more than do any of you."

"Father looks ill!" gasped Kitty. It was the first hint she had had of any such thing, and a sudden cold fear filled her heart. She forgot her dislike of Lady Kitson and Lettice, and the wrong they had done her. "Is father really ill, Lady Kitson?" she asked anxiously, leaning towards her. "He has never mentioned it to me, nor has Aunt Pike."

"He is too good and unselfish to complain," said Lady Kitson coldly. "You should use your own eyes, and not wait for him to tell you he is ill. He has not actually told me that he is, but I can see that he looks overworked and unwell, and certainly not fit to battle with a houseful of noisy, restless boys and girls."

"Of course we shouldn't be noisy if father was not well," said Kitty, with quiet dignity. She was feeling intensely uncomfortable on Pamela's account as well as her father's. Lady Kitson's remarks were not polite to their guest.

Lady Kitson sat back in her seat and unfolded a paper, as though to intimate that she had no more to say. Lettice crossed over and sat beside Kitty, evidently intending to talk to her, but Kitty could not bring herself to be friendly to her late school-fellow; besides which, she had Pamela to talk to, and there was this news about her father to fill her mind.

"He can't be very ill," said Pamela comfortingly, seeing Kitty's quiet distress. "Your aunt or Betty would have said something to you about it. While I am with you I can take the children out all day long if you like, so that you can keep the house quiet, and we won't be any trouble. But of course you must send me home if it is not convenient for me to stay."

"But it will be," cried Kitty, trying to throw off her fears, and she crossed over and sat by Pamela.

When, though, they presently stopped at Gorlay Station, all her troubles vanished, for the time at any rate, for there on the platform stood her father, and Betty, and Tony, all apparently as well and jolly as could be, while old Prue and the carriage waited in the road outside.

"Father is here! Father is here to meet us and drive us home!" she cried joyfully, and, forgetting Pamela and Lady Kitson, and all the rugs and bags and everything, she was out on the platform and in his arms almost before the train had come to a stand-still.

Dan waited, and with well-feigned if not real patience helped out Lady Kitson and her possessions; then he too flew. "Come along!" he shouted to Pamela, forgetting his shyness. Pamela, though, with a wistful little smile on her lips, collected their belongings without much haste, and followed him, but very slowly.

For a moment she felt herself almost an intruder, but it was only for a moment; for Dr. Trenire, looking over the heads of Dan and Kitty, saw her, and guessing who she was, went at once and met her with such a cordial greeting that she felt herself one of them from that moment; and Kitty, remorseful for her forgetfulness, brought up Betty and Tony to be introduced. Then Pamela was made to sit up in the carriage beside the doctor, with Kitty and Tony on the back seat, while Dan and Betty mounted to the top of the omnibus, and off they started in the gayest of spirits. Prue, who could never endure to let any other horse pass her, insisted on racing the 'bus the whole way home, to the amusement of every one. Betty and Tony shrieked with delight, Kitty sat beaming with a happiness so great as to seem almost unreal, while Pamela sat quietly taking it all in, and revelling in it, yet with a touch of sadness as she realized for the first time in her life how very much she had missed.

"Oh, isn't it like old times," sighed Kitty happily, "to be together again, and by ourselves. Father, are you frightened by the thought of us all?"

Dr. Trenire laughed. "Not really frightened," he said. "You see, I can always send for your aunt. She assured me she would return at once if I found you all unmanageable."

"Oh," said Kitty gravely, "then we will promise not to be quite unmanageable, but just bad enough."

At that moment Lady Kitson's carriage overtook them, and her ladyship looked out and smiled and bowed to the doctor as she passed. "Don't you let them wear you out, doctor," she cried.

Kitty, with sudden recollection, leaned forward and studied her father's face earnestly—as much, at least, as she could see of it. "Father," she said anxiously, "Lady Kitson told us that you were not at all well. Aren't you?"

She had unconsciously expected, or at least hoped for, a prompt and strong reassurance; but her father did not answer for a moment, and then but half-heartedly. "I haven't been quite up to the mark," he said quietly, "but," looking round and seeing the anxiety on her face, "it is nothing to worry about, dear. I would have told you if it had been. I am rather overworked and tired, that is all. It has been a very heavy winter of illness and anxiety. I shall be better now the spring has come, and I have you all home to liven me up. We must try and give Pamela a happy time, and you must take her to all your pet haunts."

But Dr. Trenire was not as well as he led them to believe; and though Kitty was not observant enough to notice such signs as a slower, heavier step, a want of energy in setting about his work, a flagging appetite, she did notice that he was quieter and graver, and had not such spirits as of old.

Pamela became at once a favourite with every one. Even Jabez unbent, and was not always suspecting her of some mischief or other.

"What part of the county do 'ee come from, miss?" he asked when first he was introduced.

"I am afraid I don't belong to this county at all," said
Pamela apologetically. "I am not a Cornishwoman."

Jabez looked disappointed, but he tried his best not to make her feel her sad position more than she could help. "Well now, that's a pity; but there, we can't always help ourselves, can we, miss? and 'tisn't for we to make 'ee feel it more'n you do a'ready. We've all on us got something to put up with. Whereabouts up along do 'ee come from, miss, if 'tisn't a rude question?"

"Devon," said Pamela, smiling at the old man. "It might be ever so much worse, mightn't it? Do give me some comfort, Jabez,"

"Well, yess, miss," he answered, willing to cheer her if he could. "And maybe 'twas only an accident. Your parents 'd gone there to live, or something of that sort. Accidents will happen to the most deserving."

"Yes," sighed Pamela, "I feel it was a mistake, for directly I came here
I felt at home, and I had never done so before."

"You'll be sorry to go back, miss."

"Sorry!" cried Pamela. "I can't bear to think of it. I never was so happy in my life, and never enjoyed my holidays before."

It was a very simple holiday too, but each day was full of happiness. One by one the four introduced Pamela to their best-beloved haunts. They made excursions to Wenmere Woods, to Helbarrow Tors, to the moors and the river. Very frequently, too, some of them went for drives with Dr. Trenire far out into the country, over wild moorland, or through beautiful valleys, and Pamela loved these drives as much as anything, and felt she could listen for hours while the doctor told her the story of some old cairn, or the legend of a holy well or wayside cross.

Once they all went to Newquay to visit Aunt Pike and Anna, and spent a long, glorious day on the beautiful sands, paddling in and out of the rock pools in search of rare sea-weeds, and anemones, and shells.

"I didn't know your aunt was so old," said Pamela later, when she and Kitty were talking over the events of the day. "You did not tell me she was."

"No," said Kitty thoughtfully, "I didn't think she was. I noticed it to-day myself, but I never did before. She does look quite old, doesn't she?" appealing to Pamela, as though still doubting her own eyes. "I don't think she looked so last term. She seemed quite altered to-day somehow, so small and shrivelled, or something."

But other interests soon drove the matter from Kitty's mind, and she thought no more about it until Mrs. Pike and Anna returned to Gorlay a few days before the end of the holidays to see to Dan's and Kitty's outfits, and by that time Kitty was far too miserable at the prospect of returning to school to give more than a passing thought to her aunt's changed appearance.

Anna was quite strong again, though her old nervous, restless manner had not left her, and she still had the same difficulty in meeting one's eyes fairly and squarely.

"Your cousin looks as though she had something on her mind," said
Pamela. "Do you think she has?"

"I don't know," said Kitty; "at least I don't think it would trouble her much if she had. She didn't really enjoy herself at Newquay. She says she is very glad to be home again, and I should think she would be too," added poor homesick Kitty. "I am sure I should get well here quicker than anywhere," and Pamela agreed.

"I think it was nonsense of Dan to say it was worth while to go away to have the pleasure of coming home," she moaned when the last day came. "I am sure nothing could make up to me for the misery of going, and I think it is worse the second time than the first."

Poor Kitty's woe was so great that at last her father was driven to expostulate. "Kitty dear, do try to be brave," he pleaded. "I am not very well, and I cannot bear to see you so unhappy. You make it very hard for others, dear, by taking your trials so hardly."

Kitty looked and felt very much ashamed. "I hadn't thought of that," she said; "but, father, it is really very hard to bear. You don't know how miserable I feel."

"How will you bear greater troubles when they come, as they are sure to?"

"There couldn't be greater ones," said foolish Kitty.

"My dear, my dear, don't say such things. This is, after all, but a short temporary parting, when we could all come together if needs be. There are some that last a lifetime," he added sadly, and Kitty knew he was thinking of her dead mother. A few moments later he spoke more cheerfully. "I am going up with you to-morrow," he said. "Perhaps that will comfort you a little."

Kitty looked delighted, but Dr. Trenire did not tell her that when he had left her at her school he was going to consult a doctor about his own health; for he intended to let no one know that he was bound on such an errand until he had heard the verdict, and only then if it was absolutely necessary.

However, the consultation proved that it was absolutely necessary, and a few days later the following letter reached Kitty:—

"My Dearest Kitty,—I have to send you some news which is not good, but you must not think it very bad. A few days ago I was told by a medical man that I must take a long holiday and a sea voyage as soon as possible, and he dared me to stay away less than three months. I am obeying him because I want to feel stronger than I have lately, and I do not believe in asking a clever man's advice and then refusing to act upon it. So I am getting a locum tenens here for a time, and as soon as I have introduced him to my patients I shall start on a cruise somewhere. I have not yet decided where. But before I go I shall certainly come and spend a day with you, my dear, to talk things over. I will write to Miss Pidsley and arrange it all. Your aunt will look after Betty and Tony very carefully, as you know, while I am away, and they have promised me to be happy and good, so that I may not be worried about them. They are a good little pair, on the whole, and I feel quite satisfied about Tony at any rate.

"You must promise not to fret or worry about my health or my absence. The doctor told me to keep as free from anxieties as possible, so, if you want to help me—and I know you will—you must be as happy and do as well at school as you possibly can—that will help me more than anything—and write to me letters full of smiles. I know you know how to, and I shall count on hearing frequently. In about three months' time I hope we may all be journeying home together to keep our summer holidays. I shall be back in time, I promise you, and will arrange so that I can meet you and Dan.

"I shall be writing again in a day or two.—

"Your affectionate Father."

When first she opened this letter and mastered its contents, Kitty turned cold and faint with the shock it brought her. At once her imagination pictured her father ill, dying, or going away from them all and dying at sea.

"He's more ill than he will say, I know," she moaned. "Father never tells the worst. O father! Father! and I am not even at home to be with him. If I could see him I should know; but here I am in prison, and— and I can't know what is happening at home!" and Kitty collapsed on her bed, sobbing pitifully.

"Katherine! Katherine! what is the matter, child?" Miss Pidsley, hearing sounds of grief, opened the door and looked in, then she walked in and closed it behind her.

"I have had such dreadful news," moaned Kitty. "Father is very ill— I know he is worse than he says—and I am not there, and—and I am here a prisoner. Read what he says, Miss Pidsley."

Miss Pidsley laid her strong hand on Kitty's trembling arm. "Dear, you must know that if your father wanted you, or thought it necessary that you should be home, that he would send for you, and you could go at once, so do not feel yourself a prisoner." Then she read the letter slowly and carefully through.

"Isn't it dreadful?" sighed Kitty, looking up at her as she laid the letter down.

"It is a trouble for you certainly, dear," said Miss Pidsley. "But I think you have every reason to hope that your father may soon be well and strong again, and in the meantime I see he has given you plenty to do for him. Don't let him know that you are not able or willing to do what he asks you to."

"What has he asked me to do?" cried Kitty, starting up eager to begin then and there.

Miss Pidsley held out the letter, and pointed out one particular paragraph. "If you want to help me—and I know you will—you must be as happy and do as well at school as you possibly can. That will help me more than anything."

"But that can't really help him, and—and it is so difficult." Kitty looked up into Miss Pidsley's face very dolefully.

"But it does help, dear, more than you can imagine. Nothing would worry your father more than to feel you were unhappy. Do try, for his sake. You can't refuse his request, can you?"

"No," said Kitty mournfully, "I can't. I—I will try, but—it is very hard to begin at once, isn't it? One is frightened and unhappy before one knows one is going to be, and then it is so hard to forget it again and try to feel brave and happy, and all that sort of thing; and oh, it does seem so dreadful that father should be ill, and have to go away from us. I can hardly believe it."

"You must try not to think of it in that way, dear, but think that he has been ill for some time without being able to do anything to make himself well again, and that now he is about to be cured, and if he has rest and change and an easy mind every day will see him a little stronger and happier. He has worked hard and long, and often, probably, when he has been feeling quite unfit; but now he is going to have a real rest, and to enjoy himself. It is good to think of, isn't it?"

"Oh yes," cried Kitty, much more cheerfully, "and I hope he will get off soon, for I know he will get no rest while he is in Gorlay. I have never known father have a holiday."

"Then let us all try to make it a really happy one now," said Miss
Pidsley, and she went away leaving Kitty much comforted.

Three days later Dr. Trenire came up to say "good-bye," and at the end of a long, pleasant day together, happy in spite of the parting before them, Kitty bade him "good-bye" with a brave and smiling face, and sent him back to Gorlay cheered and comforted, and with at least one care less on his mind; for in his heart he had been dreading that day, because of Kitty's grief at parting.