CHAPTER XIV.

To-morrow was Poppy's birthday, and all day long there had been mysterious whisperings and signs and nods, hasty dashes in and out of the house, invasions of Mrs. Vercoe's and Mrs. Bennett's shops, and great mysteriousness on the part of Ephraim, who had to make a special journey to Gorley.

And all the time Poppy, with a little thrill of excitement at her heart, went about pretending to see and hear nothing, and half wishing her senses were not so acute.

Miss Charlotte was very vexed with herself. She had made an engagement for the very afternoon of the great day, and could not get out of it.

"I am so vexed I did not remember, dears," she said; "but it was so long ago I was asked, and I had to accept or refuse then and there, and I really did not realise what the date actually was. I should have liked, above all things, to have been home with you on that day."

The children were very sorry too; but seeing Cousin Charlotte so vexed they made light of their own disappointment.

Anna was vexed too. To her the birthday tea was the great feature of the birthday, and she had, days before, with a great deal of trouble to keep it a secret from the children, made and baked a beautiful birthday cake, which now lay hidden away in a white cloth in a tin box in the copper in the wash-kitchen.

On this day, the day before the great day itself, when she had for the first time realised that the children would be alone on the important occasion, her mind had grown very seriously troubled, so troubled that she could think of nothing else, until suddenly a beautiful idea came into her head, so beautiful an idea that Anna fairly gasped. Later on, when she had really sorted out her plans, she went upstairs to a big box in her bedroom which held untold stores of treasures, and searched until she drew from the depths a box of little sheets of fancy note-paper and envelopes. This was hid in the copper too, along with the cake; but only until the children had all gone to bed and the house was quiet.

As soon as ever she was sure there would be no more rushes into the kitchen that night, Anna got out the wooden box with 'Hudson's Soap Powder' stuck all over it, in which she kept her writing materials; and then, withdrawing the box of fancy note-paper from its hiding-place, she sat down, and taking out sheet by sheet, spread them all on the table before her.

"It do seem a pity to use it after keeping it all these years," she said regretfully, as she examined each one. They were all different. "But there, there couldn't be a better time. They'm just what I want." So hardening her heart against any further regrets, she proceeded to make her choice.

"I think Miss Poppy ought to have the roses. They'm considered the best of all the flowers, and 'tis her day. Then Miss Esther shall have—let me see. They'm all so pretty I don't hardly know which to choose for which— oh, Miss Angela shall have the daisies, somehow they remind me of her, and vi'lets seems like Miss Esther's flower, and I'll give the sunflowers to Miss Penelope."

That settled, and four envelopes picked out and inscribed each with one of the children's names, Anna squared her elbows and began the real work of the evening. First she took some old scraps of paper, and wrote note after note on them before she succeeded in pleasing herself. At last she accomplished what she wanted, and feeling satisfied, copied it out, word for word, on the four sheets of note-paper. She hesitated as to whether she should not put her writing on the plain side, and so avoid marring the fair beauty of the flowered side, but she thought better of it, and hardened her heart; and after one had been done she did not mind so very much.

It was almost late when at last she went to bed, her task had taken her so long, and the clock actually struck ten as she crept into Esther's room and left two of her little notes on the dressing-table, after depositing the other two in Penelope's and Angela's room.

Poppy, being the heroine of the day, was naturally the first to wake the next morning. At the remembrance of what the occasion was, she sat straight up in bed with excitement, and nearly shouted; then she saw that Esther was asleep still. It seemed very hard that every one else should be asleep, and quite lost to the greatness of the occasion, while she was awake and alert, all ready to receive congratulations.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness she could make out a square, fascinating-looking parcel on the table by Esther's bed, after which it became almost intolerably hard to lie still and wait for the others to wake. The little heroine's excitement began to give way to quite a hurt feeling. It seemed as though no one could care, or they would never sleep on like this. She actually began to feel aggrieved; but she sprang out of bed to try to drive away the feeling by looking out to see what the morning and the weather were like. She might, if she had liked, have pulled back the curtains in a way that would have waked Esther at once; but she drew them as gently as though her one anxiety was not to disturb her sister, and opening the window, looked out.

Oh, how lovely it was! Poppy, child as she was, gasped at the sight before her. Road and river, houses and moor, lay bathed in the clear glow of the beautiful pure morning sunshine. Every leaf and twig sparkled with dew; even the little window-panes in the cottages glittered and looked beautiful. On the moor opposite great cloud-like masses of mist rolled away quickly before the advancing sun, leaving the old brown moor behind it, flashing from thousands of tiny leaves and blades. The river gleamed and scintillated as it danced along, singing as it went.

"Everything seems to know what day it is," said Poppy gleefully. "Oh, you dear river, you dear sun, you dear, dear moor and houses, how I love you all!"

She softly closed the window and turned away to get back to bed. As she turned her eye fell on two little envelopes, one pink, the other lilac-coloured.

"What can they be?" she cried, as she read the inscriptions on them.

'Miss Esther.'

'Miss Popy.'

Taking up the one addressed to her, and carefully opening it, she took out the pretty sheet with the spray of rosebuds scattered over the page. Across the rosebuds, sprawled in big letters,—

"Anna rekuests the pleasure of Miss Popy's compny to tea in the kitchun at five o'clock.

"Yours respectfly

"Anna."

The rustling of the paper had aroused Esther at last. First she opened one eye, then the other, and would have shut both again, only they happened to fall on the white parcel beside her.

"Why, it has come! The day has come! It is Poppy's birthday!" she thought. She sprang up in a moment, wide awake. "Many happy returns of the day," she cried. "Oh, Poppy, have you been out of bed long? Come into my bed and get warm. Here is something for you. Why, what have you got there?" Poppy was dancing about the room in a high state of glee, waving a letter in her hand.

"Oh, thank you, darling," she cried, seizing the parcel and hugging Esther at the same time. "And here's something for you. Won't it be fun! Isn't Anna a dear! I do love her. I fink I love every body."

"Get into bed," commanded careful Esther, and Poppy hopped into her sister's bed before she even stayed to open her first birthday present.

Esther's gift was a book, which she had bought for her little sister the last time she was at Gorley. Poppy was delighted. New books, or even old ones, came to her so seldom. She loved them with such a love as only the unspoiled child can know. While she was still crooning over it, looking at the pictures, examining the covers, patting it and loving it as though it were a living, feeling thing, the other two came flying in, all excitement. Each held in one hand a letter, in the other a small parcel.

"Many happy returns of the day. Oh, you darling!" as they caught sight of Poppy's dark head and beaming face in Esther's bed. "Just look at our letters,—oh, you have got some too? Isn't it lovely of Anna? I think she is a perfect dear." Both talked at once, and as fast as their tongues could wag. "Here's a present for you," said Penelope, laying her parcel very carefully in Poppy's lap, and kissing her on the top of her curly poll.

"Jump in too, at the bottom," said Esther; and soon all four were tightly packed into the little bed.

Poppy's fingers shook as she fumbled with the string. It was a curious-shaped parcel, and Penelope kept enjoining her to be very careful, and not to turn it over. When at last she did undo the wrappings, and the box inside, and found a tiny red flower-pot with a baby cactus in it, her joy knew no bounds.

"I am afraid you won't care for mine very much," said Angela meekly. "It is something for your room." But Poppy was equally delighted with the little blue pincushion, with her name, 'Poppy,' outlined in bright new pins. "It is stuffed with tiny, soft, beautiful feathers from our own hens," explained Angela. "I've been saving them, and Anna baked them for me."

They all agreed that it was a perfectly lovely birthday morning, one of the nicest they had ever known, and when the presents had been examined and discussed, Anna's pretty writing-paper came in for a long examination.

"I like mine best," said Esther, and all agreed they each preferred their own.

"Mine ought to have had poppies on it," said their little namesake; "but I do like roses best."

"Anna gave you the roses because the rose is the queen of flowers, and you are the queen of the day, I expect."

Then Anna came in to call them, and at the sight of the four figures in the bed immediately collapsed on to a seat by the door, and laughed and laughed until they laughed too from the infection of it.

"We'd best stop ourselves," she said presently, rising, and trying to make her face very grave. "Laugh before breakfast, cry before night, they do say; and we don't want no tears this day, do we?"

"Oh no," they all agreed, and tried very hard to draw long serious faces at once; but it was difficult on a birthday, and holiday, with the sun shining, and the birds singing, and tea in the kitchen in prospect.

When Poppy presently danced singing down to breakfast, she found by her plate another present—a pretty scarlet housewife from Cousin Charlotte, containing a little pair of scissors, a silver thimble, a case of needles, a stiletto, a bodkin, and two of the tiniest reels of silk she had ever seen. When the case was closed it looked like a dear little red hand-bag.

There was a letter, too, from Canada from father, for the mail happened to come in that very day. Such a nice letter it was—so full of love for his little daughter, and longing to see her, and all of them. "Sometimes I feel I cannot bear this exile from my little ones any longer," he wrote. "If I do run away from here and return, will you help to make a home for your old father and mother? or will you want to remain with Cousin Charlotte always? Give her my love and grateful thanks for all her kindness to my chicks."

Angela cried a little over this letter. "I don't believe father is a bit happy out there," she said. "I do wish he would come home and live here, and mother too. It would be so jolly, and I'm sure they would love it."

A little cloud of sadness rested on them for a while, but for Poppy's sake they put away all sad thoughts, and began to make all kinds of nice plans for the day, and before very long they were all as merry as grigs. Cousin Charlotte was really very pleased when she heard of Anna's invitation.

"I wish you were coming too," cried Esther, "then it would be all quite perfect,—oh, and there's Ephraim. I do think Anna ought to invite him too—don't you, Cousin Charlotte?"

"You had better ask her," said Miss Ashe with a smile. But Anna did not smile when they put the question to her. "Me ask Ephraim!" she cried indignantly. "Me ask him! No, my dears, 'tain't likely as I shall ask him to tea in my kitchen, so he needn't expect it," and she bustled away, sniffing and snorting in a perfect fury of disgust apparently. Why she should show such scorn and contempt of poor Ephraim no one could ever understand; but some very wise, sharp-eyed people had been known to say that she over-acted her contempt for all men, and Ephraim in particular, and that really—well, they even went so far as to say she had so warm a spot in her heart for him, she was always afraid some one would find it out.

But, if it was so, she acted so well that neither Ephraim nor the children ever suspected it was acting.

Having made their suggestion, and not met with the success they had expected, they turned their thoughts next to the spending of their morning. With one consent they agreed it was to be spent on the moor.

"I will wear my watch," said Esther, "and we will see how far we can get; but we will come back to 'the castle' for lunch, won't we?"

All agreed joyfully; and Miss Charlotte's permission having been obtained, Anna packed them two noble baskets of provisions, and gave them a can of milk. Poppy was loth to go away and leave her new treasures, and debated long whether she would not carry her book or her cactus with her—one would be so nice to read on the way, and the sunshine would be so good for the plant; but on the others pointing out to her that she would not be away so very long, she finally agreed to leave both in Anna's care.

"Don't you think," said Penelope, when at last, after many wanderings this way and that, they reached the castle, and she had dropped her basket and thrown herself on the ground beside it—"don't you think we might leave the baskets and can here? It will be ever so much nicer not to have to carry them all the way, and I should think they would be quite safe if we hide them very carefully."

All agreed at once that it was a splendid idea, and quite safe, for they scarcely ever saw any one on the moor but themselves; and the baskets were heavy, and the milk was apt to slop, and it would be much nicer to go on with free hands.

"We will try a new way to-day, shall we?" cried Penelope; and they bore away to the right instead of keeping straight on up the slope, wandering hither and thither, it is true, but still bearing in the same direction, until presently they came out by the station.

A train was just coming in, and they stopped to watch it—a great delight to them always, for the coming and going of the trains was one of the greatest excitements of their lives. They never expected to see any one they knew; but the sight of the people in it, even if they did not get out, afforded them interest and food for talk, wondering where they were going, and whether they wanted to go or not, and making up all sorts of tales about them and the people they were going to. An engine is always fascinating, too.

To-day, though, was quite an unusual day. First Anne Roth got out, and then Miss Row and her guest Mr. Somerset. Anne left the platform first, and was walking briskly away when he caught sight of the children, and came up to them smiling and bowing.

"How is Mademoiselle?" asked Esther, who never forgot her inquiries.

"Not very well, m'amzelle," Anne answered sadly. "I think she is suffering, and her spirits are low. If m'amzelle could find time to come and cheer her, she would be glad, I know, and it would do her much good." He glanced at the others; but they had learned that Esther disliked any encroachment on what she considered her rights.

"Oh, yes, I will come," she answered gladly. "I will come to-morrow. I cannot to-day, for it is my little sister's birthday, and we have had an invitation to tea; but I will come to-morrow, and I will bring a book. Perhaps Mademoiselle would like to be read to."

"I am sure she would," agreed Anne. "Thank you, m'amzelle. Bon jour "; and with a bow which included them all, Anne hurried on.

As he went Miss Row was rapidly approaching the spot where the children stood. She looked with curious, suspicious eyes after Anne, and then at the children.

"Who is your friend?" she asked with frank curiosity..

"That is Anne Roth, Mademoiselle Leperier's man," said Esther, not without a touch of importance in tone and manner. "Mademoiselle Leperier is a friend of mine," she added. She still felt a little sore that Miss Row had passed her over for Penelope, and she was not sorry to let her know she had friends who could appreciate her.

Mr. Somerset had been teasing Poppy in the meantime, and laughing with the others.

"What a pretty name," said Miss Row, who was very curious and wanted to find out more; but she already knew enough of Esther to understand that she must not let her curiosity be apparent.

"Yes, it is," agreed Esther, by her little vanity falling easily into the trap laid for her; "and she is so pretty, too, and she had such a lovely voice once. She was a very famous singer years ago, but she never sings now—"

Then remembering, she stopped suddenly in her chatter, colouring hotly with anger with herself, and embarrassment, as she glanced round and saw all eyes fixed on her. It seemed to her that every one was listening to her indiscreet, foolish talk. Mr. Somerset had ceased playing with Poppy, and was listening with particular interest.

"Mademoiselle Leperier," he cried, drawing nearer. "You don't mean to say she is in the neighbourhood! You never told me," turning to Miss Row, "what a celebrity you had in your midst. I should so much like to meet her—quite an interesting personality. I have always wanted to know her. Don't you know her story?" And in a few brief, cold words he gave the outline of the bitter tragedy of the singer's life.

Esther chafed and boiled with anger against them, and resentment and rage with herself. She realised to the fall now what she had done. She had destroyed Mademoiselle Leperier's peace and seclusion. She had laid her open to curiosity and unwelcome visitors, and—and she might even have driven her from that neighbourhood, and Mademoiselle would know it was her fault, and blame her, and never like her again.

Oh! it was bitter to think that she had done it, she who loved Mademoiselle so, and knew and understood her, who meant to have been such a comfort to her. Poor Esther was heartbroken as she realised it all. Something must be done, she determined. She must do something to undo some of the mischief. She could not let things go on like this; it was too dreadful.

They turned to her full of inquiries. Where did Mademoiselle Leperier live? What did she look like? Who lived with her? etc. etc. Esther set her lips tight. They should get no more out of her. In the first place she could decline to tell them where Mademoiselle lived. If they determined to find out, she must find some means of preventing their going.

When Miss Row had asked three or four questions and got no answer, she began to grow annoyed. "What is the matter with you, child? Why don't you speak when you are spoken to? Don't you know how rude it is?"

"Yes, I do know," said Esther, in a very trembling voice, "and I am very sorry, but I am not going to tell any one anything more about Mademoiselle. I—I ought not to have said anything. I promised her I wouldn't. I am very sorry I did—"

"Dear me! dear me! how important we are!" cried Miss Row, whose temper was far from being one of the best. "Let me inform you that we all knew of Mademoiselle Leperier before you were born, and Mr. Somerset knew her personally—"

Mr. Somerset stepped forward, colouring a little. "I—I am afraid I can hardly claim that much," he said hastily. "She was so great and so sought after, and—and so exclusive, it was difficult to get to know her— unless,"—with a smirk—"one were a celebrity too."

Miss Row looked at him as crossly as she had at Esther. She hated to find herself mistaken at all.

"But I thought," he went on hastily, "I would very much like to see this celebrity of a past generation, the heroine of such a romance, in her—ah —in her retirement. Perhaps she would not be so exclusive now. A chat with her would be most interesting—such valuable 'copy.' I really must try to accomplish it. Shall we call, dear Miss Row? I am sure you and she would be mutually pleased."

Esther's feelings became too much for her. She did not know what 'copy' meant; but she felt certain that this kind of person was the very last Mademoiselle would wish to see.

"Oh, please don't," she cried anxiously. "Please, you mustn't go there. Mademoiselle herself told me she did not want any visitors, and Anne told me she came here on purpose that she might be quite quiet, because she can't see them. Please don't go. If people call she will go away— I'm sure she will. Anne says she had to move from ever so many places because people would not let her be quiet. Please don't let her know that I said she lived here. I did not mean to—"

"Dear me! I suppose you have the exclusive right to the lady's society— that, knowing Miss Esther Carroll, she does not require any other friends!" Miss Row's sneering, sarcastic words brought the colour to Esther's cheeks and the tears to her eyes.

"I didn't—mean—that," she stammered confusedly, bitterly hurt. "You know I didn't," then turned away hastily that they might not see how weak she was.

All this time the others had stood by listening, growing more and more indignant with Miss Row, and more and more sorry for Esther. At first they were afraid to say anything for fear they might make matters worse, but Miss Row's last speech was more then they could bear. Angela ran to Esther with blazing cheeks and flashing eyes. "Never mind, dear," she cried, putting her arms about her. "You were very brave to speak up so."

Penelope stepped nearer to Miss Row. Her cheeks were white, her eyes very bright and indignant.

"It is not fair to speak to Esther like that, Miss Row," she said reproachfully. "It was by accident she came to know Mademoiselle Leperier, and Mademoiselle asked her to go again, or she wouldn't have gone, for Esther knew she did not want to have strange visitors—she told her so. She said she didn't want any one to know she was living here, for she was not strong enough to have visitors, or to go anywhere. Esther ought not to have said anything about her, and she was frightened when she had; but when she had, she had to tell you—about—about not going there."

Miss Row was not in the frame of mind to be reasonable. She felt she was in the wrong, and that made her the more cross. "Well, Penelope," she said icily, "I did not expect to be spoken to like this by you, after all I have done for you, too. I did expect civility and some gratitude in return, I must confess; but I find I have been grossly mistaken in you."

Penelope started, and her face flushed crimson.

"I suppose," went on Miss Row, turning to Mr. Somerset, "I was foolish to expect it from children brought up as they were." Then turning to Penelope again—"Esther's unfortunate temper one has grown accustomed to; but you—"

Penelope hung her head for a moment, overcome with mortification; then suddenly raising it she looked fearlessly, but wistfully, into Miss Row's angry eyes. "I wish you would understand," she said earnestly. "We neither of us mean to be rude or—or ungrateful." She stammered a little over the last word. "It was only Mademoiselle we were thinking of—and—and then you were unfair to Esther, and—and I couldn't bear that."

"And I can't bear rudeness," said Miss Row, beginning to move away. Her face was very red, and her eyes ugly. "Don't come to me again this week for a lesson," she said, turning round to face Penelope once more. "I—I don't want to see you for a while. When I do I will send for you."; and Miss Row walked away very quickly, chattering volubly all the way to her companion, while Penelope stood, stunned and wounded, scarcely able to believe her own ears.

For a few seconds she remained looking after the retreating pair, then turned, walked silently for a little distance, and suddenly dropped on the old brown turf in a passion of sobs.

For a moment Poppy gazed, too entirely astonished to know what to do. She could not remember when she had last seen Penelope weep; it happened so rarely. Flinging herself on the turf beside her, she threw her arms lovingly about her. "Don't cry, darling. Oh, Pen, don't cry," she pleaded. "It doesn't matter what that horrid old Miss Row says, and we all love you. Don't cry, dear." She was too young to comprehend what was hurting Penelope most—the words that rankled, and stung; the charge of ingratitude; the taunt; the throwing up to her of favours she had received—things no lady should ever permit herself to do.

Under the lash of it all Penelope sobbed on uncontrollably. When she did weep, she did weep—a perfect storm of tears that shook and exhausted her. Poppy grew frightened at the violence of her grief. There seemed to be something more here than she could understand. "Oh, where is Essie? Essie must come," she cried, raising herself on her knees and looking about for her sisters; but Esther and Angela were at some distance, walking slowly but steadily away, apparently absorbed in talk.

Poppy sighed a big sigh which sounded almost like a sob. "My poor little birthday," she murmured wistfully, "that I fought was going to be so lovely!"

The words and the tone touched Penelope. Her sobs grew less, broke forth again, then stopped, and she struggled up into a sitting position. "Oh, you poor little Poppet," she cried. "It is hard on you. I am so sorry, dear. It is too bad that your birthday should be spoilt like this. I wish—I wish we had kept to the moor, and not come anywhere near human beings." Tears welled up into her eyes again, but she only threw up her head and tilted her nose a little higher, as though to make them run back.

"Never mind, darling. We will try to forget all about it, and enjoy ourselves."; but a sob shook her even as she spoke.

"And it began so beautifully," Poppy was murmuring. "Anna said 'Laugh before breakfast, cry before night,' and it's come true. I'll never laugh before breakfast again."

Penelope listening to her, suddenly made up her mind. It should be a beautiful day, after all. They would put away all unpleasant thoughts for Poppy's sake. It rested with her to be cheerful herself, and to comfort and cheer up the others. She put her arms about her baby sister and drew her closer. "Poppy dear, don't tell Esther about—Miss Row being so— nasty, and about my crying. It will only trouble her more, and I want her to forget, and we will all try to be very jolly to-day, won't we?"

Poppy nodded her head vigorously; but there was a doubtful expression on her pretty face. "She will see you've been crying," she said gravely.

"No. We will sit here facing the breeze, and that will soon make my face and eyes look all right, and—we will laugh and talk as if nothing had happened. We are going to have a really jolly day, aren't we?"

Poppy nodded again; but a second later she shook her head gravely. "I sha'n't ever forget what Anna said about laughing before breakfast," she said very seriously. "It comes true."

Side by side on the springy turf the two little figures sat, leaning against each other lovingly, waiting for the sweet breeze to take away all traces of sorrow; telling secrets the while of what they would do by and by, when they were grown-up, and trying bravely to forget their own troubles for the benefit of others.