CHAPTER IX.

"Oh dear!" sighed Esther, dropping wearily into the chair by her bedroom window. "I am so tired!"

Anna looked up in surprise from her task of bed-making.

"Tired, Miss Esther!" she exclaimed. "Whatever with? You oughtn't to be tired at this time of day."

"I am though," said Esther, sighing again; "tired of doing nothing, I suppose. You see, I used to have lots to do at home, and I miss it."

"Did you, missie? Well, I'm thinking if I had a chance to sit still I'd be only too glad, and not grumble, I know." And Anna thumped a pillow vigorously.

"I don't think you would," said Esther. "You would soon get tired. But perhaps you don't like doing housework. I do; I love it."

"Do you really, miss?" said Anna, as though such a taste were past her comprehension. "Well, you'll have enough to do next week, when your lessons begin."

"Yes," assented Esther, "but they won't take long; and it's dusting and tidying, and all that sort of thing that I like. I wish I had a little house of my very own. I would do all the work in it myself. I'd love to blacklead a grate, and clean windows, and scrub tables and things—oh, Anna, do let me help you, or I shall grow homesick and miserable. Do let me do some dusting for you; I'd love to—will you?"

Anna was quite touched by Esther's piteous appeal; also she herself detested dusting and 'finicking work,' as she called it.

"Would you really like to, dearie? Then you shall. I know it's miserable not to know what to do with yourself; I used to feel like it when I was a child. I was never so happy as when I'd got real work to do; 'twas better to me than play. You shall dust your own room presently, if you like."

"Shall I? Oh, that will be nice." Esther was on her feet in a moment, all her melancholy gone. "Where shall I find a duster, Anna?"

"Don't be in too much of a 'urry, Miss Esther. I reckon you wouldn't feel so pleased if you'd got to do it," added Anna, laughing. "I'll give you the duster and brush in a minute. You lend me a hand with this, if you will," turning the mattress on Poppy's bed, "and I'll be ready in half the time; it's ever so much quicker done if there's two at it; you see, when one's alone, one wastes so much time running round and round the bed."

"Of course," said Esther. "I wish I'd helped you sooner. I wonder how long I should be learning to make a bed. Is it very difficult?"

"Not a bit," said Anna, "once you've got into the way of it. First you spreads the blanket like so, and tucks it in—you must always begin at the bottom."

"First the foot and then the head, That's the way to make a bed."

"My old grandmother taught me them lines when I wasn't more'n eleven, and I've never forgot 'em. Next you spreads the sheet just so, and you must be careful not to leave any creases in it. Then you beat up the bolster and pillow, and lay them like that," suiting the action to the words. "Then comes the top sheet, and the blankets. You must tuck each one in at the bottom first, and then at the sides, and leave the top end loose, so that when you've got the blankets spread, you turn the sheet neatly down over the blankets; and then you see it's all tidy under the quilt, ready for when you come to turn down the bed at night."

Esther followed her instructions closely to the end. "Shall I come and help you with the others?" she asked, as Anna moved off to Penelope's room; and Anna quite graciously consented.

"I shall be glad enough to have the dusting done," she said, as they finished off the other two little beds. "I've got to make jam to-day, and that means that I can't leave the kitchen a minute when once I've put it on," and Esther could have danced with joy. She was managing wonderfully, she told herself, and felt very proud.

From the French window below they heard Miss Charlotte's voice. "Penelope!" she called. "Penelope, dear!"

Penelope came running up the garden at once.

"Do you think you could walk as much as two miles without getting over-tired?"

"Oh yes," said Penelope, without a moment's hesitation. "I often walked five or six miles at home. Do you want me to go somewhere, Cousin Charlotte?"

"Well, dear, I very much want some one to go to Four Winds for me. I promised some strawberries to a friend of mine, Miss Row, who lives just outside Four Winds. She is giving a garden-party to-day, and I know she is relying on my sending her some fruit. I thought Ephraim would have been able to go, but he started for Gorley before I could speak to him."

"I should love to go," said Penelope. "I will start at once. Which way is it, Cousin Charlotte?"

"You go past the houses here, and keep on the main road, right up the hill, until you come to the top; just before you reach the top you will come to a church."

"Oh, I know," cried Penelope. "I went there yesterday, and when I came to the church it was open, and some one was playing the organ, and I went in and sat in one of the pews for ever so long to listen."

"Oh, is that where you were?" said Miss Charlotte. "I wondered what had become of you. Well, when you go so far another time, dear, take Guard with you. We rarely, if ever, get a tramp, or any other undesirable person about these parts, we are too remote, and too poor to be worth coming so far to find, but all the same I do not like you to go about quite alone. Take him with you now, dear. When you reach the church you must go on a little further, until you come to the village; then you cross the square straight, keep down the next hill a little way, and you will soon come to a large white gate with 'Cold Harbour' painted on it. That is my friend's house. Go in, and ask for Miss Row, and if you can see her, give her the basket and this note. If you can't see her you must leave them; but I hope you will, for I should like you to rest a little before you take the walk back."

Penelope took the basket, and was starting straight away with it.

"I think, dear, you had better wash your hands and brush your hair before you go," said Cousin Charlotte. "Miss Row is very good and kind, but she is a very particular lady, and I want you to make a good impression on her; besides, one lady never calls on another with soiled hands."

"Oh, of course!" Penelope blushed and ran upstairs, and some few minutes elapsed before she walked out and through the village, her basket of strawberries on her arm, and Guard at her heels.

It was a glorious day, with rather a stiff breeze blowing, and clouds and sunshine chasing each other along the road. If it had not been for the clouds, and the intervals when the shadows had overtaken the sun, the walk would have been a hot one; but Penelope did not notice that, her mind was absorbed by other things, for suddenly it seemed to her that it was rather an alarming thing to be going alone to face a strange, and very particular, lady, and she felt a great shyness coming over her. She tried to forget it by racing the cloud, as it chased the sunshine, and the sunshine as it overtook the cloud, and so, at last, she came to the church. She paused a moment to listen, but the organ was silent to-day, so on she went again, but more soberly, and soon found herself in the village square, with little low-roofed houses on either side and a pump in the middle of the square, and two or three happy ducks paddling about in the damp earth by the trough. Guard, as though he knew it of old, went up to the pump for a drink. The ducks fled, tumbling over each other in their hurry, scrambling and quacking indignantly at the great creature who had so disturbed their pleasure; but Guard, quite unconcerned, drank, and went calmly on his way again until he led Penelope straight to the white gate with 'Cold Harbour' painted on it.

A short drive led from the gate to the house, and Penelope felt horribly shy and conscious as she made her way up it. It seemed to her that somebody might be watching her from every window, and there were so many windows it was quite embarrassing.

But, apparently, no one had witnessed her approach, for she stood quite a long time at the door, not able to reach the knocker or find the bell. She rapped with her knuckles; but they grew sore and produced no result, for the sound did not reach beyond the door-mat, or so it seemed to her, and the vast, still hall within appeared to swallow up everything. Guard lay down at last on the gravel and went to sleep, and Penelope longed to sit beside him. She was tired, and her arm aching a good deal from carrying the basket.

But at last, just as she was beginning to get anxious and a little vexed, a servant crossed the hall on her way to one of the rooms, and saw her.

"Good morning," said Penelope. "I have been trying to ring the bell, but I don't know where you keep it."

The servant, an elderly woman, who looked like the cook, smiled. "There's a brave many can't do that," she said. "There," showing Penelope a little knob like a button, "there 'tis; 'tis one of them new-fangled electric things. I can't abide 'em myself; they may be very fine and nice for towns, but in the country, where we don't have to count every inch of room, give me the good old sort. 'Tis such a silly noise these makes, too, like a child's toy, yet it never sounds but what I jumps nearly out of my skin."

Penelope wished one would sound then, that she might see so wonderful a sight. But she only smiled.

"I wanted to see Miss Row, please. I've come from Miss Ashe."

"Please to walk inside, miss," said cook, very amiably; and Penelope followed her through the dim hall to a large room where a lady was sitting at a table littered with vases, cans of water, and quantities of cut flowers. She was rather a severe-looking lady, and glanced up so sharply when cook opened the door and showed the visitor in, that Penelope was, for the moment, quite frightened. But it was not Penelope's way to remain frightened for long, and she soon recovered herself, as did Miss Row when she saw that the intruder was not a very formidable person.

"I have brought you these from Cousin Charlotte," said Penelope, advancing to the table with her wide, frank smile; "and I was to give them to you myself if you were at home."

Miss Row took the basket and the letter, but she was paying more attention to their bearer than to either.

"I suppose you are one of Miss Ashe's young cousins?" said Miss Row abruptly.

"Yes, I am Penelope, the second eldest."

"Well, sit down for a little while, and rest before you walk back again."

Penelope, not being directed to any particular seat, and seeing by the window a little low, upright chair, evidently made for small people like herself, went over and seated herself on it with much satisfaction.

But Miss Row, glancing up presently from her letter, felt no satisfaction at all; in fact she gave quite a scream when she saw her. "Oh, child," she cried. "Get off that chair this moment, quick! quick! It isn't meant to be sat on; it is far too old and valuable. Oh dear! you might have broken it right down, or—oh dear, oh dear, to think that out of all in the room you should have chosen that one!"

Penelope sprang to her feet at once. At first she felt terribly alarmed, then very angry; it made one feel so small to be screamed at in that way.

"I—I didn't know—how could I?" she said crossly. "Is it a broken chair?" What she longed to say was, "Why do you keep it there if it is so unsafe?" but she felt that would be rude. "I am very sorry," she added, forcing herself to be polite. "Is it a very old chair?"

"Yes, very old. It was made for my great-great-grandmother, when she was a little girl, and I value it exceedingly. Unfortunately the last two or three years worms have got into the wood, and have eaten it so it is quite crumbling away."

"But can't you do anything for it?" asked Penelope, her vexation swallowed up in pity for the chair. She was thinking that if she had valued it so much she would have taken better care of it.

But Miss Row had returned to her letter again. When she had done she rose and rang the bell. "You can take some milk and cake before you go, can't you?" she asked.

"Yes, I think so, thank you," said Penelope modestly. "But I left Guard outside. Will he stay, do you think?"

"Oh yes, he is used to waiting here."

Cook came in presently with a tray, on which was a large jug of milk, some glasses, and a plate of cakes of various kinds. Penelope thought they looked beautiful, so beautiful that she longed to take some back to the others. She knew exactly how thoroughly they would enjoy them; but, of course, no sign of what she was thinking escaped her.

She was wondering which of all them she might take for herself, when Miss Row took up the plate. "I think you will find that very nice," pointing to a piece of uninteresting-looking shortbread, "or that," pointing to a slice of ginger-cake. "They would be less likely than the others to disagree with you."

Penelope longed to say that nothing disagreed with her, but she did not like to, and helped herself with the best grace she could to the shortbread.

Miss Row continued arranging her flowers, sipping a glass of milk meanwhile, and eating one after another of the fascinating little sugared cakes Penelope was eyeing so wistfully, while she nibbled at her thick piece of shortbread, unable to get a real bite. There really was no satisfaction about that shortbread. It was so hard as to be unbiteable, and so crumbly it scattered all over the floor; while with one hand occupied holding the glass of milk, and the other the cake, she could not pick up the crumbs, or break the piece. When she saw the crumbs filling her lap and pouring off on to the carpet, poor Penelope wished she had declined to have anything, and sat in misery wondering what she could do.

Presently Miss Row looked around at her, and her sharp eyes fell immediately on the litter on her usually speckless carpet. "Oh dear," she said with the little click of her tongue which expressed annoyance more effectually than any words could. Then, perhaps catching sight of the child's mortified face, she tried to pass it off.

"I expect your Cousin Charlotte has a trial with the four of you," she said, in what she meant to be a joking manner; but her words, and the little laugh that accompanied them, were worse to Penelope than anything.

"I—we—try not to be more troublesome than we can help," she said shortly, without a trace of a smile on her face. "Cousin Charlotte doesn't seem to mind—and we try to help as much as we can." Then, after a moment's silence, "I—I wish I hadn't taken it. It was so crumbly I couldn't eat it without its falling all about; and the chair is so high my feet don't touch, so they all ran off my lap." She meant the crumbs, though it sounded as if she was speaking of her feet.

Perhaps something told Miss Row that she had not been very kind, for her tone changed. "I ought to have thought of it, dear," she said. It was the first time she had ever been known to call any one 'dear'.

"I think I had better go now, please Miss Row," said Penelope very gravely. She still felt mortified and unhappy.

"I wonder if you would mind waiting just a little longer, then I could have your company as far as the church. I must go and have my practice, or I shall not be ready for Sunday."

Penelope looked up with sudden interest, all her mortification and resentment forgotten. "Oh, was it you who was playing there on Tuesday?"

Miss Row nodded. "Probably, I don't know of any one else who plays that organ. Why? What do you know about it?"

"I walked up there the day after we came, and I heard the organ, and I went in and listened for ever so long. I hope you don't mind. The door was open, and I thought any one might go in."

"Mind? Oh dear no! I am only thankful some one besides myself takes any interest in it. Are you fond of music?"

"I love it! I love to hear it! I can't play yet, but I want to learn, and I think," gravely, "I'd rather play the organ than anything. I do want to learn to play so well that I can earn money by it."

"Oh, you mercenary little person," laughed Miss Row. "What can you want with money?"

Penelope did not know what 'mercenary' meant. She understood the second question, but she did not know whether she was at liberty to answer it or not. Miss Row seemed, though, to be waiting for a reply, so she felt obliged to.

"We all want to help Cousin Charlotte and father," she added, with great earnestness. "You see we are so many, and it costs such a lot to keep us all, so Esther says, and I don't know how to help, but I am trying to think of a way."

Miss Row looked at her little companion very thoughtfully, with a somewhat puzzled expression. She herself had never known what it was to want money. She was a wealthy woman, and she did a certain amount of good with her wealth, subscribing to many charities, but it never occurred to her that there might be anxiety and need amongst people of her own class, still less among those she knew. Penelope's words opened a new vista before her, and set her wondering if there were not many things she had missed for want of eyes and understanding.

"If you could play the organ," she said at last slowly, "it would be years before you could earn your living by it. You could not do much until you were seventeen or eighteen."

"No," said Penelope sadly. "That is the worst of it, and by that time perhaps daddy will be able to have us out to Canada; but it would always be useful, for I daresay there are organs in Canada, and I don't suppose daddy will ever be very rich again, and—and if I only knew how to play I could help if I was wanted to."

"It is always a great pleasure and solace too, even if one only plays for one's own pleasure," said Miss Row softly.

She led the way into the hall, unhung a hat and put it on, and preceded Penelope to the door. Guard, hearing their footsteps, rose from his sleep in the sun, and expressed his delight.

On their way through the garden Miss Row gathered quite a large nosegay of lovely roses and carnations and mignonette, and as she wandered from bush to bush, Penelope followed her in a state of perfect delight. She was passionately fond of flowers.

At last they made their way into the road and up the hill. Miss Row was rather silent. Penelope talked and Miss Row listened, but she did not say much until they came to the gate of the church and stopped.

"Tell Miss Ashe I will come and see her tomorrow. Give her my love and thanks for the fruit, and for introducing one of her cousins to me—you, I mean," touching Penelope's cheek lightly with her finger. "And these are for you," placing in Penelope's hands the lovely flowers she had been carrying all this time.

Penelope gasped with delight. "For Cousin Charlotte! oh, how lovely, I thought they were for the church."

"They are for neither. They are for you yourself," said Miss Row, with just the faintest tinge of colour in her cheeks. For one second Penelope looked incredulous; then in a kind of rapture she held her bouquet closer. "Oh, thank you very, very, very much," she said earnestly. "I never had anything so lovely in my life before," and she put up her face with the prettiest grace imaginable to kiss her new friend.

"I am glad you are pleased," said Miss Row smilingly. "Now, good-bye. Perhaps I may see you on Sunday."

"On Sunday?" said Penelope puzzled.

"If you come to church."

"Oh, do we come up here to this dear little church? I am so glad, I didn't know. I hope we shall all come. Good-bye, and thank you, and,"—hesitating a little and colouring warmly—"I am so sorry about the crumbs;" and waving her hand to her new friend as she disappeared within the church, she ran off in a state of high glee.

Mrs. Vercoe was standing at her door as Penelope passed. "Good-morning, missie," she said. "I reckon you'm fond of walking. I was the same when I was young. Oh my! what bootiful flowers!"

Penelope stayed to display her treasures. "You must have one of them, Mrs. Vercoe," she said, selecting one of the handsomest roses from her bouquet.

Mrs. Vercoe was vastly pleased. "'Tisn't often one has a flower like that now," she exclaimed delightedly. "It'll brighten up my bit of a place wonderful. Thank you kindly, missie "; and she disappeared into her house to place her treasure in water.

Penelope was hurrying on, when, glancing round to look for Guard, her eye fell on Mrs. Bennett standing at her shop door. Mrs. Bennett said "good-morning," and Penelope returned the greeting; but she had gone a step or two before it occurred to her that she had not been very gracious or kind to the post-mistress. Mrs. Bennett must have seen her stop and give a flower to Mrs. Vercoe. She paused, then slipped back to Mrs. Bennett's door. "Would you like one of my pretty flowers?" she asked.

"Oh no, thank you, miss. Don't you pull your bookay to pieces for me," she answered civilly, but with just the slightest toss of her head. She was really a little hurt and jealous, for she had seen that Penelope's offer to Mrs. Vercoe was quite spontaneous. Penelope, conscious of the feeling that had been in her own heart, was ashamed and sorry. "Do please let me give you one," she said earnestly. "I want to. I have such a lot it would be greedy to keep them all."

Mrs. Bennett backed into her shop. "Won't you come inside, missie?" she said, much more graciously. "Your little hands are almost too small; you'm in danger of dropping some of them."

Penelope followed her in gladly enough. She could not bear to think she had hurt any one's feelings, even any one she did not particularly like. Mrs. Bennett led the way into her parlour, where Penelope had never been before. It held all the treasures she was most proud of, and the window was full of geraniums, fuchsias, and hanging baskets of 'Mothers of Thousands,' blocking out most of the light. While Penelope was selecting a flower Mrs. Bennett stepped to the window.

"Are you fond of flowers, miss?"

"Oh, very," said Penelope, "I love them. I wish I could grow some. I think I shall ask Cousin Charlotte to let me have a little bit of garden of my own. Do you think I should ever get anything to grow?"

She talked on rapidly, partly because she was really interested and partly in the hope of ministering balm to Mrs. Bennett's wounded feelings.

"Oh yes, missie, of course you could, and if you'd like a split or two of geranium I'd be glad to give 'ee some off of any of mine, or you could have 'em in pots in your own windy. Have 'ee got a windy-ledge to your room?"

"Yes," said Penelope eagerly.

"Then you could grow mignonette and lots of things there. Look at mine. I've got flowers 'most all the year round."

Penelope stepped over to look closer at the beautiful pelargoniums, the great white geraniums, and graceful fuchsias, all blooming as happily in their narrow space as though it had been a handsome conservatory.

"Oh, and what is that?"

Two halves of a cocoanut shell hung from the top of the window with a curious little creeping plant growing in them, and sending long, hanging tendrils down over the sides.

"I was going to ask you if you would accept one of these, missie, by way of a beginning. We calls 'em 'Mothers of Thousands' here, and a very good name for 'em. I tilled both those last year from my old plant there, and look how they've growed a'ready."

Penelope was overjoyed. To have a plant of her very own, and growing in a cocoanut shell, too, gave her the greatest delight. She thanked Mrs. Bennett profusely, took her new present almost reverently, and hardly knew how she got home, her hands were so full of treasures and her mind of excitement.