CHAPTER XIX.

Five years have gone by since Mr. and Mrs. Carroll returned from Canada to the little house on the moor which they have never left, or desired to leave, since.

Mr. Carroll's health suffered severely from the long strain and the rigour of his life abroad, and he was never again fit for hard work. But grandpapa Carroll, recognising the brave fight he had made, forgave him the misfortunes he had met with earlier and altered his will, so that when he died, not long after Mr. Carroll's return, the little family, though still obliged to be economical, and not above being glad of the girls' little earnings, were placed beyond all want.

Esther still lived with Cousin Charlotte, the prop and mainstay of the house, for Anna had married Ephraim and moved into the cottage next door to Mrs. Bennett's. Angela, pulling her bow at a venture on that birthday night, so long ago now, had hit the truth when she said that Anna could not think better of Ephraim after that evening because she thought so well of him already. A truth Ephraim found out for himself in time, though it took him two years longer to do so.

Finding it was no use waiting to speak until he found her in a gentle mood he spoke out then and there, and no one could decide whether Anna was most astonished at being asked or Ephraim at being accepted. However, when once the need for concealment of her true feelings was over Anna's manner to Ephraim changed so markedly that Ephraim often stopped to wonder if the woman he had married could possibly be the one who had led him such a life before. Love can work miracles, Ephraim found, and came to the conclusion that whether she was the same or not he was quite content.

It was a great blow to Miss Charlotte to lose her Anna, but more than one nice little maiden was only too anxious to come to 'a place' where the last servant had stayed twenty years; and Esther, and the fortunate maid chosen to fill Anna's shoes, combined to prevent Miss Charlotte feeling her loss too deeply.

Esther's hands had grown very full as time had gone on, and the fuller they grew the happier she was. Slowly and almost imperceptibly Miss Charlotte gave up more and more of her work, and took life easily, feeling she could leave all to her Esther, and know that all was well.

Angela's hens were moved to Four Winds, and Esther took over the responsibility of the poultry yard as well as the house and the kitchen and the new maid. But in the midst of all her duties she contrived to give a good deal of her time to her dearly loved Mademoiselle, for Mademoiselle was failing, and those who loved her best knew that not for very much longer would they have the joy of her presence.

Penelope was away in London, studying with all her heart and strength, for in the sweet pure air of the moor her voice had developed beyond everyone's expectation, and Mademoiselle Leperier never rested until she had been sent to study under a distinguished master. The question as to ways and means had been a very serious one, but while it was being anxiously discussed, and almost abandoned in despair, Miss Row came forward, and with unwonted delicacy asked to be allowed to play the part of fairy godmother to her favourite.

"I shall only be laying out a little to buy myself a big return some day," she pleaded. "If you will let me have a share in Penelope's success the kindness will be all on your part."

So Penelope went away from their midst to stirring scenes of life and work, weeping at leaving her beloved moor, and vowing to return as soon and as often as might be,—a vow she never forgot.

Angela's dream in time was realised too. Her dream poultry farm became a real one, and the most successful in the country. Very slowly at first she added penny to penny, then shilling to shilling, then pound to pound, until at last, instead of building more hens' houses, she bought a cow. It was an experiment, and one those about doubted the success of; but Angela never doubted, and presently another cow was added to her stock, and soon after that they all moved to a small farm, where Poppy had to become the little housewife, for Angela's time was quite taken up with her dairy.

Poppy's market-gardening scheme never got beyond the bed of parsley. With that one success she decided to be satisfied. "It was a most wonderful pennyworth," she often remarked, "for it brought me quite a lot of money, and Mademoiselle as a friend, and nothing could have been better than that."

"Nothing," said Esther softly. "Life is very wonderful, Poppy dear, isn't it?"

"Very," answered Poppy sagely, with a serious shake of her curly head.

One last scene before we bid them all good-bye!

It is Easter time once more. In the orchards and woods the daffodils are bowing their golden heads, as though awed by the beauty of the pear-blossom spreading between them and the glorious blue sky. The hedges are starred with primroses, daisies, and king-cups, the air is sweet with the scent of flowers and the fresh earth. Everything seems brimming over with sunshine and happiness and joy of living. Easter is in the heart of all things animate and inanimate.

Up in 'the Castle' the four girls are gathered as of old, but with one big gap in their circle. Guard, dear old Guard, will never accompany them more in their wanderings. He sleeps his last long sleep in the breast of the moor he loved so well. Yet he is with them in spirit and thought, for he lies buried close beside 'the Castle,' and they feel he is near them whenever they go there.

Easter is in their hearts, too, for Penelope is home for her holidays and Angela has just returned from a much-dreaded duty visit to Aunt Julia, and their joy at being together again is intense.

Penelope lies in her old attitude, flat on the moor, one cheek pressed close to its breast, her eyes gazing in a perfect rapture of delight over the length and breadth of it.

"I almost think," she says softly, "it is worth going away to have the joy of coming home again; to step out of that dear little station, and then to turn the corner and see—this," waving her hand in a wide sweep. "Oh, girls, shall you ever forget the first time we came, and how we dreaded it, and how shy we were, and frightened—"

"Until we saw Cousin Charlotte," chimed in Esther. "I never felt frightened after that."

"And do you remember," burst in Angela, "our dear little rooms, and how lovely it all looked when we came that night, and dear old Guard,"—her voice wavered and dropped—"came out to meet us, and Anna?"

"And I was so troubled about our clothes because we were so shabby, and— but it never seemed to matter much. Cousin Charlotte made everything come right. Isn't it wonderful, all that has happened just through mother's writing to Cousin Charlotte, and Cousin Charlotte being able to take us!"

"Wonderful," said Penelope softly; and back to her mind as through a vague dream came a vision of a child lying amidst the long coarse grass of an untidy garden, with butterflies, yellow and white and brown, flitting about over her head, while through her mind as she watched them passed visions and dreams of the future, and vague wonderings as to what it would bring.

"And this is what it has brought," she thought to herself. "I shall not be afraid to take the next step now. God has been so good to us."

THE END.